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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1877 , 

By JAMES A. MOORE, 

III the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I. 

Mr. Raymond’s Resolve 


The First Meeting.. 

CHAPTER II. 

CHAPTER HI. 


The Wooing Begins,,, 


Too Impatient 

CHAPTER IV. 

1 

CHAPTER V. 

Agreements 


In Society 

CHAPTER VI. 

An Excursion 

CHAPTER VH. 

Love’s Struggle 

CHAPTER VIH. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Listening to Reason 


Father and Son 

CPIAPTER X. 


iii 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Edith at Home 95 

CHAPTER XH. 

At Last 104 

CHAPTER XIII. 

A Shock 113 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Only a Friend 127 

CHAPTER XV. 

A Legacy 139 

CHAPTER XVI. 

Success 152 

CHAPTER XVH. 

At Her New Home 158 

CHAPTER XVIH. 

Carnival Time 167 

CHAPTER XIX. 

Patience Rewarded loj 

CPIAPTER XX. 

A Thunderbolt 19 1 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Sad Recollections 199 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Sixth of May 206 

• CPIAPTER XXIII. 

The Tables Turned 214 


HIS SWEETHEART 


CHAPTER 1. 

MR. Raymond’s resolve. 

Mr. Raymond was a widower. To have lost the 
beloved partner of one’s life is a sad affliction ; doubly 
so, however, if the bereaved one is decidedly ex- 
pected, by six children and several more distant rela- 
tions, not to enter Hymen’s temple a second time, 
but, henceforth, to enjoy a life of single blessedness, 
relying upon the comfort derived from a marriod 
daughter, who lives with her husband, miles off, and 
an imperious daughter-in-law, dwelling in the adjoin- 
ing house. 

Mr. Raymond had been thus pleasantly situated 
for two years, and, although not a meek man, by 


6 


ms SWEETHEART. 


any means, had received gratefully, and to all appear- 
ances, meekly, the loud attempts of Mrs. Raymond 
Junior, at making her father-in-law’s home, to him, a 
paradise on earth. 

Dashing with praiseworthy vigor into the nursery, 
and interrupting the fun of the youngest children, in 
the most unexpected manner, by lecturing them 
soundly, and reproving them eloquently, upon their 
outrageous behavior ; hurrying thence into the 
kitchen, surprising the servants, and lifting lids and 
covers from dishes and kettles in quick survey ; and 
proceeding, full of benevolent intentions, to Mr. Ray- 
mond’s own sanctum, disturbing him in his profound 
thoughts and meditations ; such was her way. 

Two years ago Mrs. Raymond had died, leaving 
her husband a widower of forty-six years of age. Their 
eldest son, William, had married several years pre- 
vious to this sad event, and had done exceedingly 
well for himself, taking for his wife an only child and 
a great heiress. His parents quite approved of his 
choice ; his father had given him a handsome house, 
for, being a wealthy merchant, he could well afford it. 

Their second eldest child, Maud, had also been 


MR. Raymond’s resolve. 


7 


married, and every one interested in the matter had 
blessed her, and wished that the remaining children 
might get settled equally advantageously. Maud 
had gone with her husband to his superb home, 
proving herself, in the course of time, an excellent 
mistress to his establishment. The death of her 
mother followed soon after. 

Maurice, the next eldest, was twenty, and to him 
the whole family looked up with great expecta- 
tions. All the other children were plain, decidedly 
so, taking after their mother, but this one was his 
father, ''out-and-out,” as one is wont to say. He 
was handsome and intelligent ; proud, yet very lov- 
able; gentle in manner, yet firm and decided in action ; 
the darling of all, and his father’s pride. William 
and he had been taken into partnership by their 
father, a year previous to the eldest son’s marriage. 

Once a week Maud drove down from Bloomfield, 
to visit the home of her childhood, to attend to her 
father’s welfare, never omitting, at leave-taking, to 
express her regrets that she was not able to do as 
" Barbara Marjoribank,” stay at home, and be a com- 
fort to Papa ; after which she kissed her dear parent 


8 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


affectionately, and entered her equipage with the de- 
lightful sensation of having done her duty. 

After one of these weekly visits, Mr. Raymond, 
still an extremely well-looking man — his appearance 
not indicating his years, with his full dark hair only 
showing a silvery thread here and there, his well 
preserved complexion, his flashing eyes, his slight, 
erect figure, and aristocratic manners — retired to 
his own room. His countenance wore an uncom- 
monly cloudy, even gloomy, aspect. Thoughts of a 
very unpleasant kind filled his mind, and his eyes 
followed abstractedly the clouds of smoke, as they 
rose curling toward the ceiling, after he had seated 
himself comfortably in an easy chair. 

“/ will do it!" broke at last from his lips, and a de- 
termined stamp of his foot showed that he was in 
earnest. “ They try to do their best,” he said, re- 
suming his soliloquy. “ But what is their best ? dis- 
comfort and disorder everywhere. Two years I have 
born this life uncomplainingly, but now, I have 
enough of it.” All this Mr. Raymond had uttered 
with great resolution, but now, the thought of his 
family, how they would take it, clouded his features 


MR. Raymond’s resolve. 


9 


again. Too well he knew what was expected of him, 
for a few days after his wife’s funeral, when his rela- 
tions came to condole with him, they had plainly in- 
formed him of their wishes and hopes, and an aunt, 
of more than eighty years of age, who never had 
the chance of losing a partner for life, had told 
him that they all felt and sympathized with him in 
his great affliction, but, at the same time, had come 
to the conclusion that he could console himself with 
the thought that it might be .still worse. He had, 
not only dear Maud, who now and then would look 
after him, but also Amanda, his daughter-in-law, 
who, at any time of the day, could and would attend 
to his and his family’s comfort. He had tried to be- 
lieve all this, repeated it to himself when sorely 
vexed, but, of late, had not succeeded in finding com- 
fort from this well-meant consolation, and, therefore, 
came to the conclusion — that he would look out for a 
wife. 

This determination once made, he felt somewhat 
relieved ; yet there remained many buts and ifs 
which had to be considered before he could take any 
further steps in the matter. 


lO 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


First and foremost, where and whom should he 
choose ? He said to himself that, being a widower, of 
a certain age, with children, although rich, he must, in 
some measure, be moderate in his expectations, for 
widowers are generally not run after, especially by 
young ladies ; and, as Spring always had been his 
favorite season, he did not see the necessity for re- 
nouncing this preference in the selection of a sweet- 
heart; therefore, yoiUhpul the sweetheart must be, 
who, in the course of time, should become Mrs. Ray- 
mond. He was aware that this might prove a diffi- 
cult condition, and, therefore, he said to himself that 
money should be no object in his choice ; this want 
would be the easier for him to overlook, as he had 
enough of what the world treasures so highly. 
Good family, however, should make up for absence of 
the metal, and there he woiildh^ particular, as he had a 
right to be, for he could be proud of his name. 

Having settled thus far, he looked about him 

through all R , allowing his mind’s eye to pass 

from house to house, stopping here, and pondering 
there, approving, doubting, and again rejecting, until, 
at last, with surprise and admirable truthfulness, he 


MR. Raymond’s resolve. 


II 


confessed to himself that there was not one young 
lady whom he believed would respond to his pro- 
posal, and that of those of a later season he would not 
care to ask the all-important question. Whence, 
then, should his sweetheart come ? 

A long while Mr. Raymond sat, trying to solve this 
question, until, at last, a smile played over his 
features, and removing his pipe from his lips, he 
knocked out the ashes, thereby showing that the re- 
solve was taken and the question answered. 


12 


ms SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE FIRST MEETING. 

Two or three days after, Mr. Raymond was sitting 
in his office, several newspapers were lying before 
him, and his son Maurice was diligently perusing the 
contents of one, when an Upon my word ! ” from 
him made his father start and move uneasily in his 
seat. 

Listen, Father, this is extraordinary,’' and he 
read aloud : — '''A widower, of ample means and good 
position, wishes to make the acquaintance of a young 
lady, with a view to matrimony. Money not re- 
quired. Address, R-. S. Post Restante.’” 

“ Now, what gentleman, who has a fortune and 
moves in good society, can be under the necessity of 
advertising for a wife ? And what kind of a woman 
must she be, who would respond to such a proposal?” 

‘‘ The gentleman may not be a very young man — 
may have children, and, therefore, obliged to be hum- 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


13 


blc,” said Mr. Raymond, with rather a faint attempt 
to be charitable. 

“Pshaw!” was Maurice’s contemptuous answer. 
“ I should like to sec the answers to this advertise- 
ment, though; it must be great fun.” 

“ I dare say, to those not interested in the matter. 
However, do you not think it time to look after that 
little business transaction we were speaking about 
yesterday ?” 

“ You are right,” said the younger; “I shall see to 
it at once ;” and taking his hat left the room. 

When his son had gone, Mr. Raymond pulled 
out his handkerchief hastily, to wipe off the drops of 
perspiration that had gathered upon his forehead, 
took hold of a paper, and fanned himself violently. 

“A few more such remarks,” he thought “and 
I shall feel thoroughly ashamed of myself. What 
if, in some way, it should be found out, that I 
am the author of this advertisement ? ” As this 
thought presented itself to him in its whole force, he 
rose from his seat, quickly pacing the room, in 
thorough discomfort. “ I have begun now, however, 
and I shall proceed,” he went on, consoling himself ; 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


14 

“ It is their own fault. Had I consulted with them, 
as I should have liked to do, they would never have 
consented; it would have created only a terrible 
revolution, without doing any good ; the whole 
family would have been in arms against me, and 
peace and rest strangers to me, henceforth. Had I 
announced my intention, I should have been closely 
watched, and my most harmless actions miscon- 
strued. No, I am in for it now, and shall go on ! ” 

Three days had passed since Mr. Raymond had 
determined to follow up his intentions of procuring a 
sweetheart, in such a very unromantic manner, when 
he entered his dwelling, hurried to his room, locked 
the door carefully behind him, and drew from his 
pocket a parcel of letters. Then settling himself in 
an arm chair, he took them up, one by one, closely 
examining the different handwriting. 

“Now for their contents,’' he murmured. He 
broke the seals and commenced reading them by 
turns, throwing some away, with a contemptuous 
remark ; smiling at others, until only one was left. 

“ All declare that they are young, handsome ladies, 
and highly educated, not thinking that the miserable 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


15 


spelling of their odious epistles would put the latter 
out of the question. To call themselves educated, 
without being able to write their own language 
properly ! ” and a sarcastic laugh broke from his lips. 
“Serves me right, however. Why did I stoop to 
such means to find a sweetheart? I might have 
known that none but such would answer me. Here 
is the last,” he continued, twirling it between his 
fingers, and looking at it doubtfully. “She, of course, 
also considers herself young, although the shape of 
these letters is as old-fashioned as if my grandmother 
had traced them. Let us see what the handsome 
writer has to say for herself.” 

“By Jupiter! this is queer and refreshing!” he 
exclaimed, after having finished the missive ; then 
read aloud — “ Eighteen years of age, and, as youth 
in itself is a beauty and a charm, consequently beauti- 
ful and charming. Poor, since you have no ob- 
jection, and, therefore, not educated, as usually is 
expected of a lady. Inquire at the North End of 
Mary Street, after the ‘ Large Farm.’ L .’ ” 

“ This letter is somewhat promising by its very 
unpromising contents,” Mr. Raymond muttered. 


i6 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


smilingly, and refolded the paper. L ; that 

is the Capital, and Mary Street I know well. I 
shall set out to-morrow. These,” taking the other 
letters, shall be answered thus ” — and he held each 
separately to the light, watching them flicker and 
burn to ashes. As the last spark died out he rang 
the bell, telling his servant to have his traveling bag 
packed, and the carriage before the door, at eight 
o’clock the next morning, to take him to the railway 
station. 

At eleven o’clock the next morning Mr. Raymond 
reached L . From the railway depot, he pro- 

ceeded to one of the first hotels of the city, where he 
was well known. After having partaken of some 
refreshment, he freed himself from the dust of his 
journey, and started upon his search. 

He entered Mary Street, with its stately old build- 
ings, and after nearly an hour’s walk, reached the 
last house, which proved to be a baker’s store. 

Before his view opened the country, beautiful and 
sunny, refreshing to his sight, with its shades and 
lights, its green meadows and loaded fruit trees, its 
little snowy cottages peeping through the dense foli- 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


17 


age, and further off, its handsome country seats. He 
entered the store and inquired, of a comfortable look- 
ing individual, who had been dozing in the sunshine 
near a window, and who opened his eyes sleepily at 
his entrance, after the “ Large Farm.” 

The man, leaving his seat reluctantly, led him back 
to the entrance. There, shading his eyes with one of 
his fat, large hands, he pointed with the other to a 
very small house that could be seen in the distance, 
shining, with its white walls, through the large, old 
trees that surrounded it. There is the place,” he 
said. You see the narrow footpath that leads from 
the road through the fields ? follow it ; it brings you 
straight to the ' Large Farm.’ ” 

That ! ” Mr. Raymond asked, both astonished and 
dismayed. ‘‘ Why, there is not more than an acre of 
land, scarcely that ; and, and ” — 

‘'And you expected to find a handsome, large 
farm, with extensive fields, meadows, and orchards ? ” 
the man interrupted him, smiling placidly; “yes! 
yes ! and these are the remains of such a one.” 

“ Thank you,” replied Mr. Raymond, and departed, 
2* 


i8 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


with a sinking heart, taking the road to the miniature 
dwelling. 

His heart beat almost audibly with expectation, 
as he neared the destination of his journey. '' Where 
is the good old family upon which I meant to insist 
so tenaciously in my choice of a wife ? ” he asked 
himself, as he looked upon the humble place. ‘‘ Surely, 
not there. A peasant’s daughter might live there — 
nothing more — with, perhaps, that beauty which 
peasants so much admire— red cheeks, white teeth, 
and a pair of stout arms, that could work well, 
and a loud voice, with which to shout pert replies 
to men in the fields. Whither has my folly led 
me?” Such were his desponding thoughts, as he 
opened the gate and stepped into the pretty flower 
garden. 

Stillness all around ; nothing but the singing of 
the birds, and the chirrup of some chickens, skip- 
ping in the graveled path of the garden, was heard. 

He hesitated; at last he heard a light step of some 
one moving swiftly inside of the cottage. The front 
door ojDened quickly, and a young girl appeared in 
the doorway. 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


19 


Mr. Raymond moved back one step, and an ex- 
clamation of surprise escaped his lips. Was it reality 
or a vision that dazzled his eyes ? Was he dreaming 
or awake ? Who was this beautiful creature, with a 
form so graceful and stately ; with eyes so proud and 
brilliant ; with skin tanned a little, yet delicate as a 
peach ; and lips so full and tempting, still, so firm in 
their expression? Whence came this lovely appari- 
tion, to whom he now involuntarily bowed as low as 
if she were a queen, yet who was clad in the simple 
attire of a peasant girl ? The pointed cap, with its 
black, broad ribbon tied loosely beneath the faultless 
dimpled chin ; the dark short skirt, with its silver 
border and scarlet cloth corsage; the under-bodice 
white as snow, the bands of whose full sleeves clung 
lovingly around her slender wrists, ending in ruffles 
of wide lace, that fell upon the slightly browned 
hands, and the long, shining braids of chestnut color, 
with their ends of scarlet ribbon, which almost 
touched the bottom of the ample skirt. 

''You are a stranger, and have lost your way?” 
asked a rich, full voice, and the girl stepped from the 
house. The almost stern expression around the 


20 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


mouth disappeared, and a smile of childlike sweetness 
and gentleness parted her beautiful lips. “ Can I be 
of any service to you, sir ? 

Mr. Raymond was unable to answer. Utterly con- 
fused he stood before her. He had recovered from 
the surprise of having been so unexpectedly con- 
fronted by so lovely a being; but what confounded 
him now, and made him feel still more foolish, was 
the entire want of embarrassment in the girl’s manner. 
No blush, no timid shrinking, or tremble of her voice, 
led him to suppose that he must have been expected. 
Frankly she looked him in the eyes, her countenance 
expressing only wonder at his not answering her 
question. She could not have penned that letter, 
he thought, within himself, or else she would not 
now stand before him so unconscious of it, nor could 
those large brown eyes have waited so innocently 
and unflinchingly for his answer. 

At last he , stammered forth : I am a stranger, 

and must have made a mistake.” 

I thought so ; here, however, comes my grand- 
mother; she will put you all right. Grandmother, 
this gentleman has lost his way Good evening, sir;” 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


21 


and with a careless nod of her beautiful head she 
turned, and, taking a hoe from a branch of a tree, 
walked down the path towards the fields. 

His eyes followed her until she had disappeared 
behind the bushes ; then he turned and perceived, 
standing before him, an old woman bent by age, 
watching him closely with her honest, but shrewd 
and intelligent blue eyes. Her face was browned, 
from much exposure to the sun, and furrowed and 
crossed with deep wrinkles. 

“ Good evening to you, sir,” and a deep courtesy 
accompanied her greeting. It was your advertise- 
ment, I suppose, I read in the paper? quite by acci- 
dent, for I seldom see a paper, but, stopping at the 
baker’s store, over there,” pointing towards the city, 
‘‘ one morning, my eye fell, by chance, upon your 
notice. It was also myself who answered it. My 
granddaughter suspects nothing, and I hope, sir, you 
have said nothing to arouse her suspicion, though it 
would take long before she would think of anything 
like that ; but she is sharp, and if once she came to 
know what I have done, she would never forgive me, 
for although humbly brought up, Edith is very proud.” 


22 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


“Your assumption is correct, Mrs. He 

stopped, not knowing how to address the woman, and 
she, understanding his self-interruption said — 

“ Adlaw ; I am Mrs. Adlaw, a widow, living upon 
this little place, alone with my grandchild, Edith.” 

“Mrs. Adlaw,” he continued, “I am a widower, 
with six children, and wealthy; as my relations would 
have decidedly opposed my intention of marrying a 
second time, had I informed them of my wish to do 
so, I resolved to take the matter into my own hands, 
and therefore proceeded, as you perceive, in this 
unusual way for a gentleman seeking to become 
acquainted with a lady, in order to make her my 
wife, if all should turn out to our mutual satisfaction.” 

“My grandchild is no lady, but if I judged you 
rightly as you were watching her going off, you 
thought that she might easily be turned into one?” 
said the old dame, proudly and confidently. 

Mr. Raymond gave a most ready assent, while an 
amused smile at her shrewdness crossed his coun- 
tenance. 

“Her very beauty,” the widow continued, “sug- 
gested the idea to me, of her being too good to be- 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


23 


come the wife of a peasant, but I never clearly knew 
how I could prevent it. The sons of the neighbor- 
ing peasants are all crazy about her ; she even had, 
young as she is, several offers from well-to-do trades- 
men from town, but her pride has, until now, helped 
me wonderfully in my endeavors to keep those 
wooers at a distance. She is kind and sociable with 
all, but no more. As soon as one of them wishes to 
show her more marked attentions she freezes him 
into silence. She has an insatiable thirst for know- 
ledge and learning. I often heard her desire, when 
a carriage passed with richly dressed ladies, ^to be 
one of them, to have the means to procure books and 
study music ; ’ but my resources are limited, and I 
cannot afford to gratify her wish. In music she had 
some instruction, just enough to make her crave for 
more. An old schoolmaster used to live in our 
neighborhood. He took a great fancy to her, and 
taught her upon his piano. She has great musical 
talent, so he often told me, and advanced greatly 
under his teaching. He died, and having nobody be- 
longing to him, left the instrument to Edith. This 
is all I have to say — we are poor, but honest. I had 


24 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


an only son ; he died when Edith was three years of 
age. She is uneducated, because I had not the means 
to procure her teachers. You have seen her, and you 
may think the matter over. Bear in mind that I do 
not mean to sell her to the highest bidder ; I love 
her dearly, and only wish for her happiness. The 
thought that I am old, and that she soon will be 
without any protection, and, also, that she could 
never be happy married to a man with a less lofty 
mind than her own, induced me to answer your ad- 
vertisement. If you can love her, and make her love 
you, I would gladly part with her, knowing that it 
would secure her happiness ; but if her heart should 
not respond to your wishes, I should not desire the 
match. You said you have six children. I do not 
know your name, as yet.” 

'' My name is Raymond ; I have two children 
married, the third is still single, but old enough 
to take to himself a wife.” 

They might give her a deal of annoyance ; step- 
mothers are not always liked.” 

They would never annoy my wife,” was his short 


THE FIRST MEETING. 


25 


reply, and the shrewd woman read in his eyes that 
they would, indeed, not dare, if he wished it so. 

‘‘ This is all we have to say to each other, now,” 
she continued; ‘‘you cannot win her affections in a 
few days, and you must, besides, be very cautious to 
let it appear before her as if your first meeting had 
been an accident. You have not said any thing to 
disturb her ? ” she asked again. 

“ Nothing. In fact, I was, at first, so surprised at 
meeting such great beauty, and afterwards so much 
confused at her evident unconsciousness of her, or, 
rather, your letter, that I said very little.” 

“This is right. I leave every thing, then, to you 
and your sagacity. Mind,” she added, seriously, 
“never offer yourself to her, unless you mean to 
make her happy.” 

He gave her his hand, saying, “ I shall come 
again,” and they parted, he looking in vain for the 
lovely maiden who had captivated him on her first 
appearance. 

Thoughtfully he walked back to town, musing 
deeply on the next step he had to take in the matter. 
That she should become his wife, if it was in his 




3 


26 


KIS SWEETHEART. 


power, he firmly resolved, for already the charm- 
ing face had taken hold of his heart — as young now, 
aye, even younger, than when he had wooed his first 
wife, for she had been chosen for him by his parents, 
while for this one his own heart spoke and wished. 


THE WOOING BEGINS. 


27 


CHAPTER III. 

THE WOOING BEGINS. 

As dusk set in, Edith came back to the house, tell- 
ing her grandmother that she had finished her task 
in the field, and inquiring, carelessly, where the gen- 
tleman had come from? Mrs. Adlaw told her, in a 
few words, as much as she thought necessary at the 
time, and the subject was dropped. 

Mr. Raymond, however, gave more thought to the 
object of his admiration, and the occurrence of the 
afternoon. Nearly all night he sat up in his chamber 
at the hotel, reflecting over the matter. The longer 
he pondered, the firmer the image of the lovely girl 
grew into his heart, and, with joy almost painful, he 
pictured to himself the time when she, in her 
great beauty, should reign as queen among the 
proud circle of his friends. They, he resolved at 
once, should never find out where she came from, 
and, least of all, by what means he had discovered 


28 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


such a rare flower. He would not give them an op- 
portunity to look down upon her, on account of her 
low parentage. As a costly pearl he would watch 
her, and tenderly shield her. But, to shine, as by 
her loveliness was her right, she, also, had to 
be made acquainted with the strict etiquette of 
society; her mind had to be cultivated, and her 
talents, surely nob of inferior order, must be given a 
chance to develop themselves. How to do this 
needed now his first attention. He would not send 
her to a boarding school, for his already jealous heart 
told him that to bring one so inexperienced as Edith 
into contact with girls of her own age, filled with 
thoughts of romance — lovers, dresses, and other such 
nonsense — might infect the mind of this pure child 
of nature, and put ideas into her head injurious to 
him, as well as to herself At last he remembered 
the only lately established Finishing Schools,” as 
they were called. His eyes lit up with pleasure, and 
a sigh of relief eased his breast. This was the very 
thing for Edith, and to one of those schools she 
should go, if her grandmother would consent. On 
that score he had no doubt, for the old woman 


THE WOOING BEGINS. 


29 


seemed to possess a great deal of good common 
sense, and was anxious for the welfare of her grand- 
child. On the morrow he would inform het of his 
plan, and then inquire cautiously about a suitable es- 
tablishment in which to place Edith, and, in the 
meantime, use all his leisure time to win her affec- 
tion. 

The following day he first visited some business 
friends, and succeeding well with them, sent home 
several orders, to be filled immediately, thus setting 
his mind at rest by showing his sons what had taken 
him from home. Next he went into a book store, 
purchasing a book on history, carefully written and 
attractively told, so as to make its contents pleasant 
to peruse, and easily understood by beginners. Then 
he set out for the Large Farm.” 

As he neared it he saw the old woman sitting upon 
a bench before the house, busily knitting, and Edith 
weeding in a flower-bed near by. The noise of the 
opening latch made both of them look up, and, on 
perceiving him, the girl called out : Grandmother, 
here, again, is the gentleman from yesterday. Good 
evening. Sir,” and then resuming her work, uncon- 
3 * 


30 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


cernedly, left it to Mrs. Adlaw to receive Mr. Ray- 
mond. 

“ You see I have come again,” he said, aloud; then 
lowering his voice to the woman — '' Have you men- 
tioned my name to your granddaughter ? ” 

“There was no occasion,” she answered, in the 
same subdued key. 

“ Then do not,” he said, “ until I have given you 
my reason for my request.” 

For a moment Mrs. Adlaw looked suspiciously 
into his face, but the unflinching, honest look with 
which he returned her gaze reassured her. “ Will 
you walk in, Sir?” she asked, opening the gate for 
him. 

“ If I am welcome.” 

As an answer she stepped back a little, to allow 
him to pass into the garden. 

“Your grandchild is industrious, I see?” 

“ She has to be so, for we are poor, and cannot 
afford to hire help; and I am enfeebled by age, and 
not able to do much hard work.” 

“You remarked yesterday that she is fond of read- 
ing. I have brought with me a book for her.” 


THE WOOING BEGINS. 


31 


Edith stopped her work instantaneously, on hear- 
ing this, and turning towards him a face covered with 
blushes, and eyes shining with joy, exclaimed, “O, 
Sir! how kind! how very thoughtful!” 

Mrs. Adlaw smiled, greatly pleased, and Mr. 
Raymond’s heart beat high, when, drawing the book 
from his pocket, and giving it to Edith, she caught 
his hand, imprinting a grateful kiss upon it, before he 
had time to prevent it. 

“ Nay, nay,” he said, smiling, “ this little present 
deserves not such great thanks. I only wished to 
please you, and besides, I have to make a condition.” 

Mrs. Adlaw looked warningly up, as if to say, 
“you are too quick;” but Mr. Raymond continued 
quietly, “ This book contains the history of our 
country ; the most important facts, only, and they are 
very entertainingly told. I wish you to read it ; and 
by to-morrow evening, if your grandmother allows it, 
I shall come again, and hear how much you have 
read, and how you have mastered its contents.” 

“ This is a most delightful condition, and I have 
to thank you afresh, for the interest you take in 
such an ignorant girl as I am ; ” and she made 


3 ^ 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


him a low courtesey, her features radiant with the 
anticipated pleasure of having a book to read, all 
her own. “ Grandmother, may I leave my work to 
have a peep at my present?” she asked, timidly, 
throwing, at the same time, a shy glance at the giver. 

“ By all means, go, and feed on it, if you wish,” 
answered Mrs. Adlaw, greatly pleased with the whole 
proceeding. In an instant the girl was off, leaving 
the two alone. 

I have much to explain to you,” said Mr. Ray- 
mond, and I suppose we may rely upon an hour’s 
quiet conversation, now that your granddaughter is 
so satisfactorily employed ?” 

She smiled her assent. 

'' I have thought it all over, as you, no doubt, have 
done also,” he continued. '‘You must be aware that, 
beautiful as Edith is, I could not introduce her to my 
family and friends, uneducated as she is at present; 
not that I would object to it for my own sake, but 
for her own happiness, I could not do it. Unac- 
quainted as she is with the rules of society, she 
would feel constantly hurt and annoyed ; her beauty 
might carry the day, and procure her admiration for 


THE WOOING BEGINS. 


33 


a time, but once the novelty worn off, and people 
became familiar with her loveliness, they would grow 
weary of the charming girl on discovering that the 
beautiful casket was empty, and that her mind did 
not correspond to the radiant exterior. The most 
exquisite beauty will weary us, if the soul is wanted ; 
that gives expression to the features, and the most 
bewitching lips lose their charm, if they utter nothing 
but empty sayings. You understand me?’' 

I follow you. Sir ; go on.” 

'' Therefore,” he continued, although, at my age, 
a year is a long time, I shall try to get her into a 
Finishing School — if you consent to it.” 

“What do you mean by a Finishing School? 
I have heard of Institutes for girls to become edu- 
cated in, but never of this new invention.” 

“ It means to place, for a certain time, a young girl 
in a family of high standing — a family moving in 
select and refined society ; one with ' children of 
their own ; daughters of the same age as the young 
lady who is thus admitted into their home ; becoming 
one of them, she is treated, for the time, as their own 
daughter; instructed by the lady of the house in the 




34 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


secrets of housekeeping, as particularly as her own 
child; presented in society, surrounded by home in- 
fluences, kept secure from bad example by the pure, 
beneficial air of home love and domestic happiness ; 
watched over by a lady who has a mother’s heart, 
with which to judge her faults leniently, and by 
which she is led to understand the little troubles of a 
young girl, and to sympathize with her in those, to 
her, so all-important sorrows; supplied with teachers, 
who come to instruct her in all the different branches 
in which she wishes to become perfect ; constantly 
watched, yet never so that she feels overburdened by 
it, or overawed and frightened into deceit. Thus 
treated, confidence for confidence, seeing nothing but 
refined, well-bred manners, hearing only the expres- 
sion of well-cultivated tninds, meeting with none but 
those fit to associate with — gentlewomen and gentle- 
iTien — how can it fail that the budding heart of a 
young girl, so impressible for good or evil, should 
open to receive the benefits of such surroundings, 
and enable her to go forth, after her time is passed, 
to her own pure home, bringing with her a happy, 
joyous heart to be a help there, an ornament in so- 


THE WCX)ING BEGINS. 


35 


ciety, and later in life a good wife and loving mother, 
able to distribute that happiness among her own 
family which she had herself enjoyed. 

‘‘This is a picture of what they call ^Finishing 
Schools.' They are sometimes found and preferred 
in foreign countries, so that the young girl so placed 
may acquire the strange language in its perfection. 
Sometimes daughters are exchanged. For instance, 
a family in France sends its daughter to friends in 
Germany, who send their child to France. Often the 
family of a clergyman is selected, as such always are 
considered highly educated, and, by their position, 
move in good circles. In such a school I should 
wish Edith to be placed.” 

“ This would be very excellent,” replied Mrs. Ad- 
law, but do you know of such a family ? 

“ Not yet; but I shall endeavor to find one. It is 
more difficult for me to do so, as I cannot openly in- 
quire, and have to move very cautiously in the 
matter. I have no doubt, however, that I shall 
succeed.” 

“ Why shall I not mention your name to my 
grandchild ? ” Mrs. Adlaw looked sharply at him. 


36 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


and he hesitated a little while before answering. At 
last, conquering his evident confusion, he said, “ You 
will pardon me, Mrs. Adlaw, if, in the explanation I 
have to give, I should hurt your feelings, but, since 
it is best to speak openly to each other, I must go 
on. Were I less sincere, I might be more polite. 
It must remain for ever a secret, resting only between 
us two, how I became acquainted with your grand- 
daughter ; it must be so, for my sake, as well as hers. 
You agree with me in this ? ” 

“ Entirely. Proceed.” 

“ But I also wish it to remain a secret, where ” — he 
hesitated. 

“ I understand you,” she said, sadly. “ I expected 
it ; you do not want to have it known where she 
comes from. I have thought it over, and, as it is,” 
she spoke these words slowly, as if still undecided ; 
“ I consent to this, knowing something of the world’s 
prejudices. But, Sir,” and her voice faltered, though 
she tried hard not to show it, “ I must see her some- 
times ; she would not wish to forget me.” 

“Forgive me, for thus paining you;” he took 
her hand gently, and there was a tone of genuine 


THE WOOING BEGINS. 


37 


sorrow in his voice : I do not mean to go that far. 
She may spend the summer with you, if she and you 
wish it. I should, indeed, be sorry if Edith had so 
little heart as to wish to leave you for ever. I will 
bring her myself, and remain as much with our old 
grandmother as I can ; and you must understand me 
rightly, I do not wish this for my sake, but, alone, 
for hers. You do not know my family” — he in- 
voluntarily shuddered, when he thought of the inso- 
lent looks his daughter-in-law would throw upon 
Edith, were she to know her parentage; and he grew 
fierce, as he pictured to himself the cold hauteur with 
which Maud would regard his beautiful wife — '‘and 
cannot be aware,” he continued, " of how coldly she 
would be received by all of them, if they knew every 
thing. Therefore I must beg of you to think my re- 
quest over, and try to reconcile yourself to it.” 

" I will accede to everything, now, since I shall see 
her often. But why] not mention your name to her 
now ? ” 

" Because, if I find a school for her, it is only 
through some friend of mine, and she might easily, 
when once there, mention my name, and my friends 
4 


38 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


would probably hear of it, suspect, and at last find 
it out. A stepmother is not always lovingly received 
by relatives of the first wife, who are glad to find 
something against the second. Of course, afterwards, 
when she is once betrothed to me, I do not care, but 
before something definite is settled between us, she 
might know me as, Mr. Sulgar.” 

‘‘ Do you not intend to speak to her on the subject, 
before you place her in a school ? ” 

“ I think not — that is, I do not know. It depends 
solely upon her, and until I have done so, I should 
not wish her to know my name. I do not like this, 
but I think it is best so. Do not tell her any name 
at all, until she asks for it. You, of course, will have 
to bring her to the school, if I am so fortunate as to 
find one, for I must appear in the matter as little as 
possible. However, think it carefully over; if you 
should discover a good reason for giving my real 
name, let me know, and we shall speak about it 
again. The Hittle one’ does not come again,” he 
added, smilingly ; ‘‘ flattering to the book, but not 
complimentary to me. I shall see you both again 
to-morrow ; until then, good-bye.” 


THE WOOING BEGINS. 


39 


Good-bye, Sir, I believe you mean well by her.” 
''You may be sure of that,” he replied, fervently, 
" and I sincerely wish and hope to win her affec- 
tion.” 




40 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER IV. 

TOO IMPATIENT. 

The following day Mr. Raymond was received in a 
different, and, to him, more pleasing manner than the 
evening before. From afar, he noticed Edith leaning 
against the gate, expecting his arrival, and a joyous 
“ he is coming. Grandmother,” reached his ear at the 
distance. 

“ Good evening. Sir,” she said, eagerly, as soon as 
he was near her. I have been waiting for you 
since four o’clock, and feared that you might be pre- 
vented from coming. I have read my book through, 
twice. O, Sir ! how can I thank you enough for this 
great treat. I know all the chief points in it by heart, 
as you will see when you question me.” Her cheeks 
flushed, and her eyes sparkled, from inward excite- 
ment. She had spoken so rapidly, that neither he 
nor her grandmother, who, in the meantime, had left 
her seat and greeted Mr. Raymond with a courtesey. 


TOO IMPATIENT. 


41 


had had time to put in a word; but now, Mrs. 
Adlaw said, My child, this kind gentleman does 
not mean to leave us instantly, therefore you will 
have time to express yourself in a less hurried 
manner. Sir,” she continued, addressing herself to 
him, ^^you may judge by this outburst, how greatly 
you have pleased my grandchild by your present, 
and, also, how warmly she feels your kindness.” 

''No apology is needed, I assure you. Your 
granddaughter could not have chosen a more expres- 
sive way to show me that my small gift is appre- 
ciated,” and his looks rested lovingly upon her 
candid features, now covered with blushes. " Let us 
rest upon that shady seat, Mrs. Adlaw, and Edith 
and I shall soon be friends.” 

The examination began. She answered every 
question, from first to last, with remarkable prompti- 
tude and accuracy, surprising Mr. Raymond by the 
manner she had understood and mastered her lesson. 
He discovered a memory of unusual tenacity, and an 
intellect quite in accordance with her speaking 
features. 

" The most exacting taskmaster could not find 
4 * 


42 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


fault with your answers, little one,” he said, smilingly, 
when he had done; ‘‘and, to reward you, I have 
brought” — he put his hand in his pockety and no 
child, expecting sweetmeats, could have followed his 
every movement with a more greedy look than 
Edith, as, with eyes shining, and half opened lips, she 
watched his hand as it disappeared behind his back — 
“ another book,” he said, placing it into her out- 
stretched hand; “it is about the same subject, only 
written in more erudite language, and giving all the 
particulars of our national history.” 

She untied the cord impatiently, and opened the 
cover; then raising her eyes, she asked, thoughtfully, 
“ are you a friend of my grandmother, Sir, that you 
take such an interest in me ? ” 

“ Her friend, as well as yours, Edith, if you will 
let me,” he answered, earnestly. 

“ It is not difficult to accept such a friend as you. 
It is I who gain by it, more than you.” 

“ I am satisfied that you should think so.” 

“And now, may I take my book and retire?” 

“Are you so soon tired of your friend that you 
wish to leave him as soon as you have something 


TOO IMPATIENT. 


43 


that interests you more ? ” asked Mr. Raymond, re- 
proachfully. 

“What pleasure could my society have for you, 
Sir ? I am young, and know not how to amuse you. 
My grandmother is a more fit companion for you.” 

If she could have known how cruelly she stabbed 
him, with these innocent and humble words ; but she 
only noticed his sad smile, and heard his gentle 
response. 

“ Your grandmother told me that you play upon 
the piano ; will you not play for me ? 

“Anything to please you Sir ; I am only sorry that 
i am so ignorant as not to be able to entertain you 
as I should wish to do.” 

“Only love me a little',' he whispered, as they 
entered the lowly dwelling, “ I shall be satisfied with 
that.” 

“How could I help liking you,” she answered, 
readily, “ when you are so good to me;” 

“Liking!” he thought to himself, “she under- 
stands me not. Will she ever ? ” he sighed, uncon- 
sciously. 

“ Why are you sad, all of a sudden ? Grandmother 


44 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


is sometimes this way, and when I ask her the 
reason, she says that old people often have serious 
thoughts, and cannot always be gay. Is it so with 
you, too ? You are not so old. Sir; and you are 
rich, I judge, and can buy anything you wish for, 
so you ought to be happy.” 

“Not every thing, ‘little one;’ there you are mis- 
taken. Money does not buy love.” 

“And do they not love you at home? How 
strange ! I should think it an easy thing to love you ; 
you are so kind.” 

His features had grown sadder and more mournful 
at every new sentence she uttered, but as she pro- 
nounced the last words his looks became hopeful 
again. He took her hand eagerly, pressing it 
warmly, and asked, “Will you try to love me, 
Edith ? It would make me so very happy.” 

“ I do so already,” she answered, too readily and too 
frankly for him to feel joy at her answer. He thought 
to himself, however, that he must not ask too much 
at once, that her feelings ought not to be forced, and 
that he must wait patiently, and give her time. 
Therefore, he said, as composedly as he could, “ We 


TOO IMPATIENT. 


45 


have forgotten the music,” and opened the old instru- 
ment for her. 

She, of course, did not play brilliantly, but she 
executed the few easy sonatas she had learned with 
great precision and true expression. Her execution 
was nothing grand or dazzling, but Mr. Raymond 
could discover that she had talent and taste, and 
would become an excellent player, if properly taught. 

‘‘ You must have a teacher,” he said, when she had 
finished. 

‘‘ My grandmother cannot afford it, else she would 
have had me taught long ago.” 

Mr. Raymond only smiled, and they went out into 
the garden again. I must say good-bye, now. 
Promise me, Edith, that you will practice upon the 
piano diligently and regularly, and not forget your 
history.” 

‘‘You may depend upon it. Sir. To fulfill your 
wishes will give me pleasure.” 

“ Look at those chickens, child,” said Mrs. Adlaw; 
“ they are among your flowers ; go and chase them 
away. You are too impatient,” turning to Mr. Ray- 
mond, when Edith had left them. “ I could not help 


46 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


hearing you ; the window was open. She cannot be 
won by storm; you will spoil all. I know her too 
well. Kindness wins her affection soonest; let her 
have time. When you are gone she will miss you ; 
that will serve you most.” 

'‘You are right; I must control myself in future. 
Good-bye, Edith,” he called. 

“Until to-morrow, Sir,” she said, coming up 
hurriedly, and taking his outstretched hand. 

“You may be sure of that,” he replied, and with 
another pressure he left the garden. 

When he looked back, after a while, she was still 
standing at the fence, following him with her eyes. 

When Mr. Raymond visited the cottage the fourth 
time, Edith was again waiting for him, but not ex- 
hibiting the joyous eagerness with which she had 
received him the day before. Her face was overcast, 
her eyes were serious, and she regarded him with a 
timid look. 

“ What is it, 'little one,’ ” he asked, taking her hand 
lovingly in his ; “ what is amiss, that you have no 
smiles to welcome me?” 

“ O, Sir ! ” she answered, hanging down her head, 


TOO IMPATIENT. 


47 


you will be displeased with me ; I do not know my 
lesson.’' 

Would it grieve you so very much, if I should 
be displeased. Tell me,” he added, eagerly, do 
you really care how I feel toward you ? He 
waited anxiously for her reply. 

She raised her eyes at once, and looking full into 
his, said, ‘‘ You know it, for I told you so yesterday.” 

He let go her hand, asking, Was the book too 
difficult for you ? I expected it, but I wanted to find 
out how much you could understand of it yourself” 
Did you, indeed, think I might not be able to 
learn all perfectly?” and her face brightened, and that 
bewitching smile, that made her whole face full of 
tender lights, parted her lips. 

I tried very hard, but there are expressions and 
words whose meaning I could not make out.” 

‘‘You will soon learn, I doubt not, ‘little one. 
Bring your book and I will explain everything, to 
you. Where is your grandmother ? ” 

“ Out in the field. She will soon be back. Here 
is the book.” 

Thus Mrs. Adlaw found them, sitting side by 




48 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


side, she listening intently to every word he said, 
questioning and inquiring, until the old woman 
thought that Mr. Raymond must get tired and 
wearied at last. Had Edith gone on for ever he 
would have joyfully sat there, happy to have her with 
him, and watching her drinking so confidingly and 
trustingly all that fell from his lips. 

When the lesson was finished, he produced a 
piece of music. It was an easy composition, on the 
sweet and pleasing air, ‘Annchen von Tarau.’ “Do 
you know this melody?” and he hummed the tune 
for her. 

“I never heard it before, but the ear catches it 
quickly, for it is very pretty.” 

“ It is a favorite air of mine. Will you try to learn 
it for me ? ” 

“ With great pleasure, Sir, and I hope when you 
come to-morrow, I shall be able to play it for you. 
I shall try very hard, and, as for the book, I shall 
now take it up with a good heart, for you have re- 
moved all the difficulties. You are not going, 
already ?” she added, seeing him taking out his 
watch. 


TOO IMPATIENT. 


49 


Do you wish me to stay?” he asked, gladly sur- 
prised at her request. ''You usually run away from 
me, as soon as your lesson is over.” 

" Oh, Sir ! you have grown less strange to me, and 
I believe, now, that my ignorance does not weary you.” 

" How did you find this out, 'little one?’” he cried, 
almost unable to suppress his delight at her words, 
and wishing that he dared to press her to his heart. ^ 
A sly smile played around the corners of her 
lovely mouth, and then she said, while playing witk 
the corner of her apron, " you need not come again, 
Sir, if you do not wish.” 

" Do you also know why ” — 

A crash and a fall hindered him from finishing his 
hasty speech, and set Edith running toward the 
house, from which her grandmother emerged im- 
mediately, whispering to the astounded gentleman, 

" Sir ! Sir ! what are you about ? Can you not 
see and understand that the child’s mind is on 
the eve of awakening, and that one incautious move 
may frighten her in the wrong direction ? ” 

" I have only three more days left ; I cannot re- 
main longer away from home.” 

5 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


SO 


“ Expect the most from your absence. Be kind to 
her now^ and let that work until your return. You 
can do no more ; at least nothing that would favor 
your wishes more advantageously.” 

‘‘ I can discover nothing wrong, inside, Grand- 
mother. A tin lid has fallen down, that is all.” 

'' So much the better for our crockery,” said Mrs. 
Adlaw, suppressing a smile. 

Mr. Raymond staid some time longer, and then 
took his leave, pondering joyfully, all the way home, 
upon Edith’s words; but telling himself that Mrs. 
Adlaw was right, and that he must control his feel- 
ings, hard as it might be for him to do so. 


AGREEMENTS. 


51 


CHAPTER V. 

AGREEMENTS. 

The fifth and sixth visits passed much like the 
fourth. That Edith now welcomed his arrival with 
joy, and saw him depart with regret, he knew. “ But 
should this be all ? ” he asked himself, while going to 
pay her another visit, in order to bid them farewell. 
Should he never be able to kindle her feelings into 
love? Would her truthful eyes never reflect those 
love-lights which flashed and shone in his ? Should 
it, after all his own passionate, tender yearning, be left 
to another, more fortunate and younger one, to 
gather this flower, by him so greatly prized ? When 
the year had passed, and to the beauty of form 
and features the charms of a ripened and cultivated 
mind had been added, should all this pass from him 
into the possession of some other man ? O, these 
torturing thoughts, these cruel reflections, which con- 
stantly racked his heart with anguish; yet which, 


52 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


nevertheless, he told himself must be pursued and held 
fast, to prevent his clinging firmly and securely to 
the one desire of his heart ; the worst anticipations 
he must ever hold before his mind’s eye, in order 
that, if his most cherished hopes should be dashed to 
the ground, it would not bow him too low ; and in 
spite of all these doubts, he would go on disinter- 
estedly ; he would do all to raise her higher, and to 
give her that boon for which her intellect thirsted, 
even if it should not be for himself ; perhaps this very 
disinterestedness might, in time, turn her heart to 
him. Thus he reasoned, and resolved to act. 

I knew you would come earlier,” she greeted 
him, when he was yet at a distance ; for it is to be 
your last visit,” she added, looking sadly into his 
eyes. O, Sir! all your manifold kindnesses stand 
doubly before my mind, now that the time has 
come when I must do without them.” 

“I shall come again, ‘little one,’” he said, as 
quietly as he was able, for her tremulous voice 
nearly upset all his good resolutions, leaving Love 
and Reason to fight a hard battle in his breast at 
that moment. 


AGREEMENTS. 


53 


Yes; so you tell me, Sir; but it will be a weary 
time.” 

‘'At the longest, only two weeks, Edith, and I 
have brought you more books and music, which will 
divert your mind, and make, the days pass more 
quickly.” 

"What! more books?” she cried, eagerly, forget- 
ting in her new treasures the sorrow of the moment 
before. "Thank you! thank you! Now, indeed, 
the time will not seem so long. I shall learn indus- 
triously, and when you return you shall see. Sir, that 
you have not been thoughtful of me in Vain.” 

Mr. Raymond answered only by a sigh. His 
hopes, raised so high an instant before, had been 
dashed rudely to the ground. 

All at once, as if the thought had just struck her 
suddenly, she said, "you never told me by what 
name I might remember you. I have thought of 
you, always, as the kind gentleman. Will you tell 
me now by what name I may think of you ? ” 

Mr. Raymond started, at first, at this unexpected 
inquiry ; but noticing, with pleasure, how she put the 
question, he answered, " think of me, as Mr. Sulgar.” 
I* 


54 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


''Sulgar?” she repeated after him, as if trying to 
impress it upon her mind. I shall not forget it.” 

And now, Edith, I have to tell you some good 
news. Call your grandmother, she will be glad to 
hear it.” 

\ 

Mrs. Adlaw came, and all three sat together upon 
the bench 

“ ‘ Little one,’ what would you say if we had found 
a school for you, where you might learn languages, 
music, history, and so forth? ” 

I should say that nothing would please me 
better.” 

‘'Well, Mrs. Adlaw, I have succeeded, and found 
one, through the interference of a friend. I do not 
know the family, personally, but I shall read to you 
the description my friend gives me of it, by way of 
recommendation.” 

" Excuse me. Sir,” interrupted Edith, who had 
listened with breathless surprise ; " before you go 
any further, may I ask, who is to pay for it ? ” 

Mr. Raymond smiled, and said, " I will. Have 
you any objection, ' little one ? ’ ” 

"Thank you, for your w^ell-meant kindness. Sir,” 


AGREEMENTS. 


55 


she answered, and around her mouth was visible that 
stern expression he had noticed the first time he had 
seen her; ‘‘but I cannot go to that school.'’ 

“ Why not, Edith ? ” 

She threw her head slightly back, and replied, 
looking him straight in the face, “ My grandmother 
must not incur a debt on my behalf, which I know 
she would never be able to repay.” 

A glance of admiration passed over his features at 
this proud and unexpected remonstrance, while Mrs. 
Adlaw smiled approvingly. 

“ But how {{you could repay it ? Would you then 
still be too proud to contract the debt ? ” he asked 

“Then, Sir, I should accept your kind offer at 
once, with many thanks,” she promptly replied. 

“Very well, Edith, you can repay it.” 

“ How ? ” she asked, with flashing eyes and 
heightened color. 

He hesitated, greatly tempted. Here was an op- 
portunity to make her his own, by a sense of grati- 
tude and duty. Only for a moment, however, this 
irresolution lasted, then he said, “in a year hence, I 
will tell you, Edith.” 


56 


HIS SWEETHEART 


“ Upon your honor. Sir ? ’* 

“Upon my honor,” he replied, gravely; “you 
shall then hear the equivalent I ask. Are your 
scruples pacified ? ” 

“ They are. Sir, and I accept your kindness with 
many thanks. But my grandmother ; did she know 
of this ? ” 

“ I did,” said Mrs. Adlaw, “ and agreed to it.” 

“And now, for my friend’s answer,” and Mr. Ray- 
mond commenced to read: ‘You have knocked at 
the right door. I am acquainted with the very family 
you wish to find. Mr. Wolden was, in his younger 
days, tutor to the sons of Duke Oswald. On his tour, 
which he made with his two pupils through Europe, 
he met his present wife at a ball at the Austrian 
Court. At that time she was a girl of eighteen years, 
with great personal, as well as mental attractions. 
He fell in love with her, and two years afterwards 
married her. The Grand Duke of Baden, to whom 
Mr. Wolden had been introduced by Duke Oswald 
himself, with the warmest expressions of his Grace’s 
greatest regard, raised him to his present position, 
remaining ever since his particular protector. Mr. 


AGREEMENTS. 


57 


Wolden has several children ; among them are two 
daughters, one of eighteen, and the other one year 
younger. French is, I believe, the language chiefly 
spoken in that family, as Mr. Wolden’s wife is a 
French lady by birth. I need only add that this 
highly connected and estimable family lives in Frei- 
burg, that lovely city we know so well. Judge for 
yourself now, and let me hear yoiir answer speedily, 
and I will make the necessary arrangements.’ ” 

“ Edith, what answer shall I give my friend ? ” 
asked Mr. Raymond, refolding the letter. “You 
know of your future home as much, now, as I do ; 
does this description tempt you sufficiently to make 
you wish to go there ? ’’ 

“ I wish for it very much. Sir, but what will these 
great people think of me, who am so ignorant, know- 
ing nothing of their manners and ways ? ” 

“On that score you may rest secure; their very 
refinement will make you feel at ease, and in a short 
time you will feel at home among them. The city 
will delight you, and is in every way adapted to our 
purpose; for, not only is Freiburg situated at a 
small distance from the French border, and therefore 


58 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


has, in a great measure, adopted the easy and elegant 
manners of that country, but there is, also, a garrison, 
among whose officers are many nobles, and a uni- 
versity with grave professors and learned savans, as 
well as eminent merchants, who all mix in friendly, 
social intercourse. * Into their circle you will be intro- 
duced, and there have every opportunity of perfecting 
yourself in every way.” 

“ Let it be, then, as you wish. Sir.” 

“Very well. The time has also come for me to 
bid you good-bye. Farewell, ‘little one;’ do not 
forget me, until we meet again. Mrs. Adlaw, fare- 
well.” 

“ Two weeks. Sir ? ” 

“ About that time ; and then we part for a whole 
year, for I shall only come back to see you off, to 
part again.” 

He left them quickly, never once turning back, and 
Edith went sadly into the house. 


y 


IN SOCIETY. 


59 


CHAPTER VI. 

IN SOCIETY. 

Edith arrived in Freiburg in the beginning of Sep- 
tember. The city was quiet then, for at the Club 
House the entertainments had not yet commenced, 
and the season for pic-nics and excursions had gone 
by; therefore the young ladies of the town had, in 
the meantime, to amuse themselves by visiting each 
other in their houses, and talking over the anticipated 
pleasure the opening winter season would bring 
them. 

This was an excellent opportunity for Edith to ac- 
custom herself to her new home. She had full 
leisure to watch and observe those around her — their 
manners and ways, so different from what she had 
been used to. '‘Use your eyes and ears, ' little one,’ ” 
were the last words of Mr. Raymond, at parting from 
her, and she had remembered them and acted upon 
them. Neither look nor movement of Mrs. Wolden 


6o 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


and her daughters escaped her. None of them could 
enter the room or take a chair, give an order or re- 
ceive company, without Edith, when going to her 
own room, rehearsing it to herself. She modulated 
her voice to that peculiar softness heard only in re- 
fined and well-bred society. She tried to acquire 
that quiet, easy, sweeping grace, with which the 
ladies of the house moved about, and entered and 
left a room. In those low and graceful bows, which 
from the first she had admired, she was perfect weeks 
ago. In short, she had used her time well, wonder- 
fully well ; for, not only had her outward appearance 
undergone the greatest change, but her mind, also, 
had kept pace with the improvement of her per- 
sonal attractions. 

It was now the first week of November, and Mrs. 
Wolden, after having made all the rounds, with Edith, 
among her friends, and thus privately made them 
acquainted with her charge, resolved to give a ball, in 
order to introduce her, for the first time, into society. 

Already her great beauty had drawn the attention 
of the other sex towards her, and even those of her 
own were unable to dispute her loveliness ; but ad- 


IN SOCIETY. 


6l 


miration gave way almost to adoration, when she 
appeared so surpassingly beautiful on that evening. 

The long, thick, dark braids were wound around 
her shapely head, and raised upon her forehead, re- 
sembling a coronet, out of which, like drops of blood, 
peeped the coral chain that was tastefully interwoven 
with them. A simple dress of white enclosed her 
queenly form, floating around her like fleecy clouds. 
A spray of corals held fast the exquisite lace berthe 
that fell from her lovely shoulders, and a broad, black 
velvet ribbon, clasped to her throat by a rosette of 
corals (a parting gift from Mr. Raymond), increased, 
by contra.st, the pearly whiteness'of her skin. 

Who would have recognised in that lovely crea- 
ture, so self-possessed, and moving with such perfect 
grace, the shy and timid peasant girl of two months 
back? Who would have suspected that she, who 
now was answering so readily, and in well-turned 
phrases, to the pleasant sallies of those around her, 
only a short time back would not have understood 
their meaning ? Those eyes which, a few weeks 
back, were ignorant of their destroying power, how 
brilliantly they flashed now, throwing forth their 
6 


62 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


dangerous lights. When she glided lightly through 
the graceful dance, who would have believed that, 
a short time ago, all this had been an unknown 
grace to her ? 

Yes, Edith’s debut was a success; decidedly so; 
thus thought Mrs. Wolden, and she repeated it 
proudly, when the ball was over. The whole winter 
was a succession of amusements, and Edith reigned 
as their acknowledged queen ; loving and tender, 
clinging and gentle with those around her, whom she 
had come to love very dearly, her features beaming 
with sweetness and caressing smiles, while among 
them, she was an ^tirely different being when in 
society. To her acquaintances, those she met there, 
she was proud, cold, distant ; ' condescending,’ might 
be the most correct expression of her demeanor 
towards them, and therefore she was called by them. 
The Duchess.” 

The winter had passed. Mrs. Adlaw, with Mr. 
Raymond, who frequently visited the old widow, read 
Edith’s letters with great interest and pleasure, and 
when Spring had arrived, and both judged from her 
missives that her whole heart was still given to her 


IN SOCIETY. 


63 


studies, they rejoiced, Mr. Raymond confessing 
frankly that this had been the season he had been 
most afraid of, and if fortune would smile upon him 
only a short while longer, they might have her back 
again, and, with her affections still unengaged, he 
might hope and try to gain her love anew. 




64 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AN EXCURSION. 

Towards the beginning of June the town of Frei- 
burg became quiet and dull, and several intimate 
families suggested an excursion to the Titi Sea. 

In order to reach this small lake one must pass the 
“ Himmelreich ” (Heaven), called thus in reference to 
its elevation, and in contrast to the frowning gorge 
which succeeds, known as the ‘^Holle (Valley of 
Hell), which, about nine miles from Freiburg, 
assumes a character of romantic beauty and grandeur. 
Its charms consist in the rich .foliage of the forests 
covering its steep sides, out of' which project but- 
tresses and pinnacles of bare rock, at the foot of 
which flows the '‘Dreisam,” bordered with turf and 
studded with frequent watermills. Even here, its 
scenery, though wild, exhibits none of those horrors 
which its name seems to imply. 

Edith had heard much of this romantic mountain 


AN EXCURSION 


65 


pass, and therefore greeted with pleasure the pro- 
posal to visit it. 

Four families, with their sons and daughters, formed 
the party. As soon as they had reached where the 
road begins to ascend the steep slope, the younger 
members left the carriages and followed on foot, 
through the Hollen Thai,” leaving behind them the 
finest scenery. They reached the inn at the same 
time with the vehicles containing the rest of the 
company, and there all took, quarters for the day, 
agreeing that, after dinner was over, they would 
walk to the lake, which lies only a short distance from 
the inn. 

Chatting gayly, laughing and singing, they reached 
the borders of the lake, and soon were comfortably 
seated among the bushes and trees on its bank. 

Edith had chosen a place a little apart from the 
merry company. Listening to the chimes of bells 
sounding from a small chapel over the waters, she 
was thinking of home and her grandmother, of Mr. 
Raymond’s visits, and his great patience with the 
ignorant peasant girl. Thus lost in thought, she had 
forgotten the others, and in living over the past had 
6 * 




66 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


lost sight of her surroundings, when, all at once, she 
was startled from her reveries by a sharp, whistling 
noise through the air, succeeded by the fall of some 
heavy object immediately before her. She was on 
her feet in an instant, and on turning around to dis- 
cover the cause of this sudden disturbance, stood face 
to face with a young gentleman, in a light traveling 
suit. Proudly throwing back her head she measured 
him from head to foot, with flashing eyes and angrily 
dilated nostrils, and her looks asked the question her 
scornfully closed lips would not utter. 

“ My apology lies here ; ” a low bow accompanied 
these words, while his smiling eyes followed his out- 
stretched hand, which pointed to a large black snake 
that wreathed and twisted its ugly body in its last 
death-struggle. 

Edith recoiled in terror, growing pale as marble. 
‘‘ I beg your pardon, most sincerely, for having har- 
bored, for one instant, an unkind thought towards the 
preserver of my life.’' 

'‘No apology is needed. I can easily understand 
how greatly you must have been startled, but there 
was no help for it ; I had to act without giving you 


AN EXCURSION. 


67 


warning ; one movement by you might have been 
fatal.” 

“ Say no more, Sir, unless you want to make me 
feel thoroughly uncomfortable.” 

The others had noticed the occurrence and drawn 
near. Mrs. Wolden inquired, what was the matter, 
and was greatly shocked after having been informed 
by Edith of her danger, and the timely help from 
Mr. here a look towards the stranger, for enlight- 

enment, interrupted her narrative. 

He stepped forward, introducing himself as Mau- 
rice Raymond, who, having allowed his traveling car- 
riage to pass on before him, in order to enjoy the 
scenery in its full beauty, and turning to have a peep 
at the lake, had seen the young lady, lost in thought, 
and a large snake, raised almost right in front of her, 
ready to spring. “ Of course,” he concluded, “ I saw 
that no moment must be lost, and thus it happens 
that I have the honor of being introduced to this 
estimable society.” 

Mr. Raymond was, naturally, profusely thanked by 
those most interested in the matter. He was pressed 
to join the company, at least until they were ready to 


68 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


start for the city, which would not be before five 
o’clock in the evening. 

He readily consented, as he had intended to stop 
at the inn. He also stated that he was traveling 
on business, meaning to remain a week or two at 
Freiburg, where he had a very intimate school friend, 
the son of General Potter. 

‘‘ I am greatly rejoiced to hear this,” said Mr. 
Wolden, ‘'as we are intimately acquainted with this 
family. We shall then have the pleasure of meeting 
you often, as we spend our afternoons frequently 
together, in one of the public gardens in Frei- 
burg.” 

Mr. Raymond, as may be supposed, monopolized 
Edith almost the whole time. She became quite 
friendly with him in the course of the afternoon, and 
told him that he very much resembled a dear friend 
of hers, and added, laughingly, that he ought to 
rejoice at it, as this remarkable likeness alone would 
prevent her ever forgetting him, even if the great 
debt she owed him for rescuing her from an untimely 
end should not be reason enough for always remem- 
bering him.’' 


AN EXCURSION. 


69 


“ This very dear friend of yours,” and he empha- 
sized the ‘very,’ for already the charms of his com- 
panion began to work, and the adverb grated un- 
pleasantly on his ears, “ is fortunate to occupy such 
a warm place in your affections. 

“ He must always occupy the first place, she 
answered, gravely, “after my grandmother, who 
raised me ; for I never knew my parents,” she con- 
cluded sadly. 

“ Then you are,” he asked quickly, but checking 
himself immediately, said, “ I beg your pardon, I pre- 
sume too much,” 

“No; go on,” she said, good humoredly, “you are 
no passing acquaintance ; you know we must be 
friends, and must know more of each other, therefore 
continue.” 

“ I wished to ask, since you are so kind as to per- 
mit me— you, then, are not related to the family of 
Mr. Wolden ? ” 

“Not in the least, though they have all become 
very dear to me. No, Sir,” and she threw back her 
head, and her eyes said proudly, “ despise me, if you 

dare;” “I am not high-born, as you, perhaps, suppose. 


70 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


nor am I rich in earthly goods. I know not/' she 
pursued, '' what you may think of me now, but I am 
too proud to seem what I am not. I have all that is 
worth being proud of, an unblemished name and a 
clear conscience. That high birth and wealth are 
not mine, is neither my fault, nor that of those be- 
longing to me. My name is Adlaw — Edith Adlaw — 
and I am an inmate of Mr. Wolden's family, to learn, 
to study, in order to become a civilized being ; " she 
finished with a mocking bow. 

''Not rich; not highly born;” he said to himself, 
while his eyes were riveted with admiration upon the 
beautiful, haughty creature before him. What *need 
had this glorious woman of station and wealth ? She 
who had all, aye, even more than those could bestow. 

Shall we be friends ? ” she said, interrupting the 
course of his thoughts, and her voice, so low and 
melodious, stirred every fibre of his heart. 

" If you will honor me with your friendship, I shall 
prize it most highly.” He took her outstretched 
hand in his, holding it tenderly for an instant. He 
nearly trembled at the soft light that shone from her 


AN EXCURSION. 


71 


dark eyes, and the sweet smile that lit up her features 
so radiantly, as he spoke these words. 

At parting, he said to Mrs. Wolden that, if she 
would permit him, he would do himself the honor of 
inquiring to-morrow how Miss Adlaw had got over 
her fright. The request was graciously granted, and 
they parted. 





72 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER VIII. 
love's struggle. 

The next day Maurice Raymond did not neglect 
to make use of the permission to inquire after Edith’s 
health ; he went to see her who had made so great 
an impression upon his mind, and to whom he had 
become introduced in such an extraordinary manner. 

Mrs. Wolden received him, and in the course of 
his call Edith entered the room. She looked not in 
the least the worse for the fright she had sustained 
the day before, and he told her so, with looks that 
said much more than his words expressed. 

I am sorry to disappoint you,” she said, laugh- 
ingly ; “ you know, I am no fine lady, and therefore a 
shock such as I experienced yesterday must affect 
me but little; and although I was dreaming last night 
of all kinds of reptiles declaring war against me, my 
nerves are too strong to allow the impress of my 
agony to be visible to every curious eye. I am one 


love’s struggle. 


73 


of the people, and therefore must be brave and cour- 
ageous ; but yoUy ^ the knight without fear and re- 
proach,’ how have you overcome your victory; and 
do you wear your honors with becoming modesty?” 

‘‘ If you wish me to be truthful,” he answered to 
her pleasantry, much more earnestly than was re- 
quired, '' I must confess that this is not the exact 
name I should give the feeling just now reigning in 
my breast. If you will allow me, I should rather call 
it pride. I am proud of having had the good fortune 
to render a service, ever so slight, to you.” A pas- 
sionate look, and a bow, low, as to a queen, gave a 
meaning to his words, which made Mrs. Wolden 
raise her brows slightly, and brought the color to 
Edith’s cheeks. 

'' As you please,” she replied, quietly, “ It is not 
for me to correct you.” 

'' Do you stop at the General’s house ? ” Mrs. 
Wolden asked, after a short pause. 

No ; I could not accept their kind invitation to 
do so, being here on business, and may, perhaps, be 
obliged to remain a month or longer.’’ Mrs. Wol- 
den, remembering that he had yesterday spoken of 


7 


74 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


weeks only, suppressed a smile, looking towards 
Edith, who, with immovable gravity, returned the 
passing glance. “ I could not avoid disturbing the 
order of their house, as I may often have to be out at 
uncertain times, therefore I took up my quarters at 
a hotel ; but I shall spend my leisure hours at my 
friend’s house.” 

May I take the liberty of giving you a message to 
Mrs. Potter, if you meet her in the course of the day ?” 

‘‘ Most certainly ; I shall deliver it with the 
greatest pleasure.” 

‘‘ We intend to go, to-morrow afternoon, to Giin- 
thersthal. Perhaps they would like to join us there; 
or we might call for them as we pass.” 

‘‘Will you let me be the bearer of their answer?” 
asked Mr. Raymond, eager to embrace any oppor- 
tunity that might give him an occasion to come again. 

“No; thank you, Mr. Raymond, that would be 
imposing upon you. Our way leads us past the 
General’s house, and we can inquire there, without 
incommoding you.” 

“ I assure you that it would give me infinite 
pleasure, if you would allow me to do so.” 


love’s struggle. 


75 


‘‘ If it pleases you, then, I accept your kind offer.” 

When he called in the afternoon, however, he 
was greatly disappointed to find the ladies out, and 
only Mr. Wolden at home to receive his message. 

While walking back towards his hotel, his mind 
was occupied with perplexing thoughts. Reason 
would not give way to the whisperings of Love, and 
his heart, in return, obstinately refused to relinquish 
its claims, but kept on, holding before him the 
fascinating charms of the girl he had seen that 
morning. Efeason told him that she was poor, and 
therefore could not mate with him; and Love replied, 
that he was rich, and consequently need not wish for 
more. Reason held forth her low parentage, and 
kept arguing and urging, until Cupid saw his most 
pointed shafts fall to the ground, and retired despond- 
ingly, confessing himself vanquished for the moment. 
Yes; by the time Maurice Raymond had reached 
his room. Reason had won the battle, and he de- 
cided that to marry into a family inferior to his 
own would be folly, and he, therefore, would enjoy 
the society of Miss Adlaw, during his stay in Frei- 
burg, as often as he could, but after that, all further 


76 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


thought of her must only be a remembrance. Thus 
fortified, he met his friend, Charles Potter, the 
General’s son. 

The following afternoon, according to arrangement, 
the two families went to Giinthersthal. Mr. Ray- 
mond had chosen Edith as his companion, and his 
seat was next to her, after they had reached the 
charming little garden at the romantically situated 
village. 

The beauties of Nature have a particularly soften- 
ing influence on men’s hearts, and Mr. Raymond was 
no exception. Reason seemed to have retreated into 
the back-ground, making room to roguish Love, who 
was peeping more audaciously than ever through 
Maurice Raymond’s eyes, while answering Edith’s 
questions, and listening to her brilliant conversation. 
Her poverty and low-birth were forgotten, and he 
only saw her radiant beauty ; that dazzled his suscep- 
tible heart;, and when, in the course of the after- 
noon, she devoted herself, for some time, to his 
friend Charles, he grew despondent, answering her 
casual remarks by monosyllables, until, seeing that 
she took not the slightest notice of his sadness, but 


love’s struggle. 


77 


provokingly kept in good spirits, he became re- 
markably attentive to the youngest of Mr. Wol- 
den’s daughters. Nothing availed him, however, 
and when the time came to go home, and the party 
entered the dense woods through which the path 
leads, he was only too glad that the prevailing dark- 
ness allowed him to offer her his arm, and he was 
transported into entire happiness by her accepting it. 

From that afternoon Maurice , Raymond was 
Edith’s devoted slave, and although he vowed and 
declared to himself, when alone, that after having left 
Freiburg he would think of her no more, these as- 
surances would not hold good in her presence. 
Then flashed from his eyes looks that told volumes, 
and sentences begun and abruptly interrupted again, 
by himself, enlightened her mind as to the state of 
his heart; but by no word, by no sign whatever, did 
she give him reason to believe that he was under- 
stood, and how she felt towards him. Kind and civil — 
that she was seemingly glad to see him — was the only 
conclusion he could draw from her deportment 
towards him. His expressive, speaking looks re- 
7 * 


78 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


mained unanswered, save by a charming, pleasant 
smile. The pressure of his hand was never returned. 

A month had gone by now, and still business kept 
Mr. Raymond at Freiburg, so he said; although 
others believed that some other attraction held him 
captive. 


LISTENING TO REASON. 


79 


CHAPTER IX. 

LISTENING TO REASON. 

Edith and Maurice Raymond met almost daily, 
either at the gardens, or at other places in which the 
environs of Freiburg abound, and which the fashion- 
able world of that city love to frequent. Almost 
unknown to herself, her heart had opened to his 
passionate looks and love-like words, and she waited 
for every meeting with joyful, beating heart. But 
when day after day passed without having brought 
more definite assurances of his love than those 
glances, so speaking in their ardor, and those sen- 
tences, uttered so tenderly and in such thrilling tones, 
yet, in reality, so insufficient and vague, she began to 
reflect, and her pride took alarm. She, in her truth- 
fulness, had hitherto unquestioningly believed what 
she thought he meant to convey to her by his man- 
ner; giving her heart into his keeping more and 
more, at every new meeting, although careful and 


8o 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


ever on the watch to hide this precious secret from 
him, until he should tell her of his own love, and ask 
hers in return. Yet his departure could not be de- 
layed much longer, for already two months had 
passed since that memorable excursion to the Titi 
Sea; and still Maurice Raymond had not come for- 
ward, as, after all that had happened, he ought to 
have done. 

That very afternoon they were to meet again, and 
Edith resolved that first she would closely examine 
her own mind, and lay out for herself the course she 
should pursue in future. Accordingly she opened 
the doors of her heart, and brought forth from its 
recess the secret which, at the same time, delighted 
and tortured her. Unflinchingly, and regardless of 
the pain she inflicted upon herself, she saw that there 
must be some reason why Mr. Raymond, who, 
judging by all appearances, seemed to love her, and 
wished to kindle like feelings in her heart, still kept 
back. She reviewed all their past meetings, and 
what had occurred ; lingered over many a word and 
look that had made her happy; and wondered at 
many a sentence that he had begun with eager, ex- 


LISTENING TO REASON. 


pectant looks, but as quickly interrupted, in evident 
confusion and reluctance. ^‘Why had he not gone 
on ?” she asked herself. It could not have been 
fear of being refused, for, although she had given him 
no encouragement — that could not have pleased him, 
and would have been unmaidenly — yet she had never 
repulsed him, and had always shown, by her manner, 
that his attentions were not disagreeable to her. ‘‘ Her 
poverty — might this be the cause of his delaying? 
Had his love to grow still stronger, to overcome this 
obstacle ? No,” she concluded, after a short time, 
not her poverty, but” — and her face flushed hotly, 
and her lips trembled — '' her low parentage.” She 
had now lived almost a year in the world, and had 
learned that high birth goes before wealth ; that 
many a loving heart might be strong enough to 
overlook the want of riches in the beloved object, 
but that to overcome the old prejudices of birth, the 
mind must be lofty and the affections strong, indeed. 
This^ she thought, might be the rock upon which 
Maurice Raymond’s love would be shipwrecked. A 
deep sigh followed this conviction, and a tear trembled 
on her dark lashes, hiding the sadness expressed in 


82 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


her eyes. Only momentary was this depression, for 
then her proud heart rose in rebellion, the tears were 
forced back, and an expression of scorn and resolu - 
tion settled around her mouth. Should he thus 
prove himself unworthy of her. affection — why 
mourn for a loss that, properly looked at, would be a 
gain ? If he had loved her well enough only to 
wile away a few weeks while in her presence, forget- 
ting her when far away, should she then give even 
one sorrowful thought to him, so undeserving? 
If birth was more to him than the devotion of an 
honest heart, why should he receive what he appre- 
ciated so little ? No ; let him have his own way, let 
him choose which he best preferred. One more trial 
she would give him, she said to herself, and hope 
clung eagerly to that last chance. She might have 
judged him wrongly and too hastily, therefore this 
counseling with herself should not conclusively 
settle all. She would abstain from seeing him for a 
few days; perhaps the want of her society might 
open his eyes as to the strength of his love, and when 
he would miss her, and had been deprived of her 
company for a little while, then, perhaps, he would 


LISTENING TO REASON. 


83 


become aware how dear she had become to him. 
So, in the afternoon, when Mrs. Wolden told them to 
get ready, Edith sent her love to the family of 
General Potter, but said that she prefetred' to stay at 
home. 

“You are not ill, dear?” asked the lady. 

“No; quite well; but I intend to devote this after- 
noon to my studies,” was her quiet reply. 

Maurice Raymond had also taken counsel with 
himself, previous to his expected meeting with 
Edith that afternoon. He had not denied to himself 
that he loved her, that her great attractions had 
chained him to her, and that he would never find 
another who could inspire the same feelings in his 
breast. “ Were she poor, only,” he said to himself, 
“ he would at once ask her to be his wife, but she 
was also lowly born,” and he sighed, in his distress, 
and painfully forced from his mind the picture of the 
lovely being who had taken such an unfortunate 
hold upon his heart. He paced the room in sad per- 
plexity, holding fast to reason, and to the thought 
what they at home would say, if he, of whom so much 
was expected, should make such a mesalliance. 


84 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


Strengthened thus, he went to meet her, to yield, as 
he knew he would, to her charms, but to be watchful 
of every look that he gave, of every word he uttered, 
so as not to commit himself. As he neared the table 
at which Mr. Wolden’s family sat, he noticed, with 
astonishment, that Edith was not among them. 
With a vague fear he inquired whether Miss Adlaw 
was sick, and being answered in the negative, and 
told that she had preferred to devote this afternoon to 
her studies, his heart throbbed, and a feeling of great 
mortification made his features cloud, and his lips 
close tightly underneath his moustache. He was 
not sure that she loved him, but was she, indeed, 
so indifferent, that studying or meeting him was 
all the same to her ? It was evident that she pre- 
ferred the former. 

The afternoon passed, for him, very slowly, and he 
said good-bye to the company at an early hour, 
giving business as a reason for departing so soon. 

The following day, when making Fenster Parade 
(window parade), she was not there, neither on the 
next one, nor did she accompany Herr Wolden 
to St. Otilien, where it had been arranged that the 


LISTENING TO REASON. 


85 


two families next should meet He felt entirely out 
of spirits, and the question rose within his mind, how 
should he feel when he had left Freiburg for good ? 
Would this constant yearning for her society be 
stilled when far away, or should he, indeed, have to 
give way to the wishes of his heart, and try to win 
Edith, in earnest, for his wife?” These thoughts 
made him thoroughly miserable, and, with a delight, 
such as he had never experieijced before, he per- 
ceived her sitting among the others at their next 
meeting. His eyes sparkled, and his face flushed 
with joy, as he went to greet her. 

''We have not met for a long time — a long time 
for me, at least.” 

"With difficulty she suppressed a smile of joy, but 
managed to say, quietly, "only five days, Mr. Ray- 
mond.” 

" I even did not see you, when I passed your 
house.” 

" At what time was that ?” she asked — the little 
hypocrite — for well she knew that two o’clock was 
the hour when he passed the window, whenever he 
knew that he was not to meet her that day. 

8 


86 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


‘^You knov/, Miss Adlaw,” he said, with a re- 
proachful look, '' at the usual hour.’' 

Without giving a direct answer to this, she said, 
'' I have to be very industrious, for only one month 
more, and I shall leave Freiburg.” 

''I shall leave it to-morrow;” he had no opportunity 
of watching the effect these words had upon her, 
for, as he spoke, her dress was caught by a branch, 
and when she had freed herself, her face was calm 
and her voice even, as she said, '‘your friends will 
miss you.” 

“ Will you miss me. Miss Adlaw ?” Where were 
his intentions to be careful, and not to commit him- 
self? 

" Will I miss the preserver of my life ?” she asked, 
in return, looking thoughtfully into his eyes. 

" Not as that alone, should I wish to be remem- 
bered by you',' he spoke almost passionately, " but,” 
he stopped abruptly, and turning away his head 
for a moment, concluded, " as a dear friend.” 

This hesitation and evident caution, for he was on 
his guard, recalled to Edith all her suspicions, and 
the softness that had shone from her face but an in- 


LISTENING TO REASON. 


87 


stant before vanished, making room for a stern, 
proud expression. Ignoring his last question alto- 
gether, she asked, calmly, do you go straight home 
from here?” 

‘‘Yes; direct.” 

A restraint had come between them. A chilling 
coldness settled upon her heart, and she could find 
no words to keep up the conversation. He fought 
and wrestled with the stern necessity, as he called it, 
longing to close her into his arms, and to hold her to 
his heart; one moment longer, perhaps, and Love 
would have conquered Reason ; but just then 
Charles Potter, with Miss Wolden by his side, came 
up to them, and the spell was^ broken. 

“We lose you to-morrow, Mr. Raymond? so Mr. 
Potter informs me.” 

“Yes; two days more, and my visit in Freiburg 
will belong to the past.” 

“We shall miss you.” 

“Thank you, for saying so.” 

It was over then, and he had gone. One parting 
call he made at Mr. Wolden’s residence, which, 
of course, lasted only a few moments. His preju- 


88 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


dices were stronger than his love, and that was the 
stumbling block in his way to happiness. 

Edith devoted one evening to giving way to her 
sorrow, but from that time she determined to bestow 
no serious thought upon one who deserved so little. 


FATHER AND SON. 


89 


CHAPTER X. 

FATHER AND SON. 

Maurice Raymond returned home, and had to an- 
swer many a curious question, and listen to many a 
speculating remark about his unaccountably long 
stay from home “on business.” That he had spent 
such a long time in Freiburg, he never confessed. 
He had put miles between himself and Edith, but 
had, as yet, experienced none of the peace and ease 
of mind he had hoped to derive from this distance. 
On the contrary, his wish to see her again grew with 
every new day, and an uncomfortable restlessness 
took possession of him. Business did not interest 
him as it formerly had, and the pleasures and amuse- 
ments he used to enjoy with his friends had lost their 
charms. His father became aware that his son was 
not the same as when he had left them, and noticed 
his growing low spirits, at first with concern ; soon, 
8 * 


90 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


however, he came to the conclusion that Maurice 
might have met with his destiny, which would ex- 
plain his long absence. His son, he knew, looked 
upon him more as a friend than as a parent, and had, 
hitherto, always brought his troubles and difficulties 
to him ; therefore he doubted not that, in this case, 
he would do the same. It seemed, though, that 
Maurice now meant to keep his own counsel, and 
would not take his father into his confidence. Mr. 
Raymond felt sorry, especially when, after two weeks 
had passed, his son became more and more de- 
pressed. One morning, when William was absent, 
and the father with his younger son sat alone in the 
office, Mr. Raymond said, ‘‘ Maurice, is there any 
cause for your despondency, and will you not trust 
me, as you have always done ? Have I not been a 
true friend to you, my son, as well as a kind parent ? 
Sometimes talking over one’s trouble eases it, and 
two heads are often wiser than one.” He waited 
awhile for an answer, but as none came, and he only 
saw his son’s face blush painfully, he continued, “You 
know that it is not mere curiosity that makes me 
wish to know your trouble, and that I do not want to 


FATHER AND SON. 


91 


pry into your affairs, but, perhaps I might be able to 
advise you. Shall I guess?’' he added, with a smile, 
and coming nearer to Maurice ; and if I am right, 
will you tell me so?” 

His son smiled, and thus encouraged, Mr. Ray- 
mond asked, Is it a matter of the heart ?” 

It is,” answered Maurice, shortly, leaving his seat 
abruptly. 

Should this, then, affect you in this manner, my 
son ? That is, if you are successful, as I hope you 
are. Have you already committed yourself?” 

‘'No; not in the manner you mean; but. Father, 
there are ifs and buts in the matter, that make it im- 
possible for me to ask her to be my wife,” he cried, 
at last, almost angry at being forced to speak of his 
trouble. 

“ Ah ! this alters the case. May I hear of them ? 
She is beautiful, I suppose?” 

“Too much so for my peace of mind.” 

“ Of course. I thought so. Accomplished ?” 

“ Highly so.” 

Mr. Raymond saw that he had to worm his whole 
secret out of him, therefore he went on to inquire. 


92 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


composedly, and not at all disturbed by his son’s 
short answers — 

'' Rich ?” 

Poor !" 

A low whistle, and, “ This is bad,” was Mr. Ray- 
mond’s comment. 

To this Maurice turned around, almost savagely, 
and said, quickly, “ This ought to be no obstacle to me^ 
Father, for we are rich.” 

/, you mean, Maurice.” 

beg your pardon, Father; you^' and a bitter 
smile played around his lips. 

‘'You must not misunderstand me, Maurice,” said 
Mr. Raymond gently, laying his hand kindly upon 
his son's arm. “ If you were my only child, you 
might safely say ^we;' but I have six children. I 
am rich, but divide the whole bulk into six parts, and 
although some might still call you rich, you would 
not think yourself so. This is what I meant by cor- 
recting you', and, Maurice, it would be well if you 
would remember this in the choice of a wife. Do 
you now understand me ?” 

“I do. Father, and beg your pardon ; but I am ” — 


FATHER AND SON. 


93 


“ Never mind, my son, I know all that you would 
say. There seems to be yet another reason why you 
should not marry the girl you love. Her parentage 
is it that ? ’ 

“ She is lowly born, though she bears an unblem- 
ished name,” he answered, reluctantly. 

“Then you are right, indeed. This settles the 
question, and you must try to forget her.” 

“ I shall never love another as I love her,” said 
Maurice, greatly irritated at hearing repeated by 
another what he had said to himself so often. 

To this outburst Mr. Raymond thought it best not 
to answer, and taking a cigar from the table, he 
lighted it complacently, settling himself comfortably 
into a chair. “What?” he thought to himself, 
“ Maurice, young and handsome, with the fairest 
prospects in life, spoil his whole future by making a 
mesalliance? He, who might choose any where. 
Absurd! Impossible! It is quite a different thing 
with me. I have passed the meridian of life, 
am wealthy, my position in society is secure, and 
if I wish to indulge a little in romance, and take 
home a wife whose parents had been poor and of 


94 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


low Station, I may risk it. It might be called the 
eccentricity of an old man, nothing more. Ih-.t 
my son would not be judged thus leniently. Society 
would forever look down upon his wife, and both 
would, consequently, be miserable. Her want of 
money might be overlooked, but the other — no. I 
pity him now, from my heart, but should pity 
him a thousand times more if he were to commit 
such a folly.” 

“My son,” he said, aloud, “you know my opinion, 
but this is all. I only give you my advice; it re- 
mains with you to act upon it or not. You know the 
consequences of such an imprudent step, as well as 
I do. You might force your friends to acknowl- 
edge her, but she would never be happy. If you 
love her truly you should, for her sake, abstain from 
your desire. You are too young to commit such a 
folly. Our opinions change with the increase of 
years-; our experiences in the world teach us. to 
judge differently, and to look upon things in a differ- 
ent light as life advances; therefore a few years 
hence you will congratulate yourself for having now 
listened to the voice of prudence.” 


EDITH AT HOME. 


95 


CHAPTER XI. 

EDITH AT HOME. 

When Mrs. Adlaw saw Edith again, she almost 
dropped a courtesey before the beautiful lady, who 
embraced her so lovingly. Grandmother, dear 
Grandmother, how glad I am to see your dear 
old face again !” and her arms clung anew around the 
delighted dame. 

“ I am afraid, Edith, you will now grow dissatisfied 
with your quiet country home, since you have lived 
so long with grand folks.” 

Never fear,” Edith replied, with a smile; 'Hf you 
only knew how often I have longed to be with you, 
and to see dear, kind Mr. Sulgar. How is he?” 

Quite well, when I saw him last. He expects 
you, with impatience. He told me that he would re- 
ceive us at the depot at L.” 


96 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


“ Kind and thoughtful as ever Edith spoke softly 
to herself '' True, faithful friend, who neither thinks 
of where I spring from, nor that I am poor;” and h^r 
eyes looked into the distance, and her thoughts were 
at L., picturing to herself her arrival there, and her 
friend’s warm greeting. One more day, and she 
would see him and ask him for the equivalent he had 
hinted at. Already she heard him cry out, ‘‘wel- 
come home, ‘ little one,’ ” his features lit up by joyful 
smiles. 

A few minutes more and the train would halt; 
already it was puffing slowly into the depot. Mr. 
Raymond paced the platform with feverish excite- 
ment. There was Mrs. Adlaw coming out, and her 
granddaughter followed. He stepped up, helping the 
old lady to descend, and turning to give the san.e 
assistance to Edith, confronted a lady of unsurpassed 
loveliness. 

“ O, Sir ! how truly considerate, to receive us,” she 
exclaimed, stretching out her hand to him in glad 
welcome. 

He took it, as if in a dream, bowing lowly, and 
saying, “ welcome home. Miss Adlaw.” 


EDITH AT HOME. 


97 


A shade of deep disappointment crossed Edith’s 
features at this ceremonious greeting, and in silence 
she entered the carriage. 

Arrived at home, she hurried at once to her own 
little room, that had been kept exactly as she had left 
it, and throwing herself upon her bed, murmured, 
while tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, '' he, too, 
has changed.” After a lapse of, perhaps, an hour, she 
went down into the garden. Her grandmother was 
busy in the kitchen, and he was sitting alone upon 
the bench where they used to have their lessons to- 
gether. He looked up when she came out, and 
noticing her sad expression, said, ‘‘ you regret those 
you have left behind?” 

‘'No, Sir; not that; but,” and her lip quivered 
slightly, and her voice was very mournful. 

"But what, 'little one?’” Involuntarily this ex- 
pression escaped his lips. 

In an instant her features had undergone a change, 
joy shone from her eyes, and with almost childish 
gladness she cried, “ that Sir — that is what I re- 
gretted;” and seeing him look at her a little per- 
plexed, she explained : " When my grandmother met 
9 


o8 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


me she almost dropped a courtesey, and that gave 
me a pang, Sir; and when you received me with a 
‘ welcome, Miss Adlaw ’ — that. Sir, that — ” 

“ What, ‘ little one ?’ ” he asked, tenderly. 

“ It pained me. I had thought you would be so 
glad to see me.” He imagined there were tears in 
her eyes, her voice was so low and sad. 

‘‘ Could you doubt, for one instant, that I should be 
otherwise than happy to have you back ?” 

‘‘ I do not now. Sir, and I am happy again. And 
now. Sir, the equivalent?” 

Mr. Raymond looked long and earnestly at her, 
and then said, not yet, Edith ; wait a little longer.” 

‘‘Will you give me a reason why not now. Sir? 
You know you promised me that I should know 
when I came back from school.” 

“I shall keep my promise, fear not; but I could 
not tell you at present, nor can I tell you the reason 
for not wishing to do so.” Then turning the subject 
quickly, he said, “ do you regret that you had to 
leave your friends ?” 

“As much as every one regrets to leave one’s 
friends ; not more.” A frank look, and a coun- 


EDITH AT HOME. 


99 


tenance that did not change, accompanied these 
words. 

‘‘ You know, ' little one,’ I am a jealous friend, and 
would wish, to be, after your grandmother, the first in 
your affections,” and he watched eagerly every fea- 
ture of her face. 

She smiled, pleased, and replied, of that you may 
be sure, for as I told a gentleman I became ac- 
quainted with at Freiburg, must always have my 
first affections.” 

And ” — it cost him much to steady his voice, and 
make this question appear as a pleasantry — '' did that 
gentleman not try to supplant me ?” 

A burning blush dyed Edith’s countenance, and 
made the blood tingle in her ears, but she answered 
bravely, looking almost defiantly into his eyes, '"he 
did. Sir.” Her lips closed sternly, and her foot 
tapped the ground in angry excitement. 

But, did he succeed ?”' and his voice sounded un- 
natural, with the effort to suppress his anxiety. 

Sir !” and like a goaded deer, her eyes shooting 
sparks of angry fire, her mouth firmly set, and her 
breast heaving with anger, she turned upon him. 


lOO 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


“ I beg your pardon.” His voice was cold and 
distant. He rose. 

She was by his side in an instant. Oh, Sir,” she 
pleaded, with almost childlike simplicity, ''you did 
not mean it. You could not know; but. Sir — your 
question — my pride could not bear it, as yet !” 

" And do you love him still, Edith ?’ 

" Love him ?” and indescribable scorn curled her 
lips. "He saved me from danger ; how, I shall tell 
you afterwards. Thus he first won my gratitude, 
then he tried to win my heart. With his handsome 
person, his attractive manners, his loving looks 
and meaning words, it was not so very difficult to 
make me believe what I thought he intended me 
to believe. I am convinced that he loved me, al- 
though he never told me so plainly. I told him, 
from the first, that I was not high-born, nor rich, 
and still he persisted in his attentions, which could 
have meant only one thing. All at once, like the 
coward that he is, he broke off, caring not for the 
mischief that he might have done. This is all. Do 
you think. Sir, that I could love one whom I must 


EDITH AT HOME. 


lOI 


despise — a coward? O, no; that feeling belongs to 
the past ; it does not trouble me any longer.” 

'' Why, then, your evident pain, almost agony, at 
my question ?” 

“ Because, Sir, it always will remain an unpleasant 
remembrance, and, besides, though my heaH may 
have overcome the shock, my pride still bleeds at the 
least touch. It is galling and mortifying to find that 
one is not loved for one’s self And, therefore, Sir, 
you could not have touched a sorer point than this.” 

Mr. Raymond saw, and was convinced, that she 
really felt as she said, and he knew that he might 
hope to gain the victory at last. Therefore he gave 
her his arm with a light heart, and begging her to 
sing his favorite air for him, they entered the little 
room. 

'"What!” she cried, in delight, ''a new piano? 
And from you. Sir, I know,” she added, deeply 
affected. “ Sir ! Sir ! can I really repay you for all 
your goodness ?” 

You can, Edith. Shall I tell you how?” As he 
saw her listen with breathless attention, he continued, 
become my own dear wife. That I love you with 
9 * 


102 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


all my heart you cannot doubt ; give me your love in 
return, and you will have fulfilled my most cherished 
wish. I saw you, and loved you. As you were then 
I could not ask you to be mine, for I arn rich, and 
you would have felt unhappy among my friends; I 
thought not of myself, only, but also of your happi- 
ness, not wishing to take you then to my heart. I 
ran the risk that in Freiburg you might meet a heart 
to which yours would respond, but I put my selfish 
thoughts to rest by telling myself that this was your 
right. I am old, and should have wronged you had 
I denied you the opportunity to see something of the 
world, and judge for yourself. You have come back. 
Your heart is free, as you assure me. You can hold 
your own now, in any society, and I ask you, will 
you try to love me, or will it be too difficult a task ? 
I wish your love of your own free will ; let no other 
consideration, whatever, guide you in this matter, 
for if you should, we both would be unutterably 
miserable. I go now, ‘ little one,’ to return in a week. 
Think well over it ; I ask only for your love, freely 
given, as I give you mine.” 

She was alone. Alone with her thoughts. Uncon- 


EDITH AT HOME. 


103 


sciously she reached her room, and sat there until 
her grandmother called her. Even then she could 
not realize that Mr. Raymond had, indeed, told her 
that he loved her, and asked her to be his wife 


104 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER XII. 

AT LAST. 

“Did you know of Mr. Sulgar’s intentions, in re- 
gard to myself, Grandmother?” asked Edith, next 
morning, as she cleared away the breakfast. 

“ I did, and approved of them, seeing that he is an 
honorable man, and devotedly attached to you. 
When I die, you will be all alone in the world, young 
and inexperienced. He will be a loving friend to 
you always, and I advise you, my dear child, ear- 
nestly to consider what I now tell you. Do not 
accept his offer, unless you are convinced that you 
can truly love him, for that would most cruelly 
wrong him. Do not, for one moment, think that you 
would repay his great kindness by consenting to his 
dearest wish, unless your whole heart goes with it. 
You would make him unutterably unhappy should 
he afterward find out that, by marrying him, you 
only wished to pay off a debt. Plad he behaved in a 


AT LAST. 


lOS 

less unselfish manner, then I might consider your 
future alone, and advise you to accept his proposal at 
once, knowing that you would be well cared for; but 
as it is, he must be considered also, and I do not 
wish that his goodness should be rewarded by 
turning his future life into bitterness. You have 
now lived long enough in the world to answer 
these questions : Are there many gentlemen, of 
wealth and position, who would have acted as he 
has done? How many would have forgotten your 
birth and your poverty, your ignorance, and want of 
manners ? Many, perhaps, might have admired you, 
but gone no further. To be sure, he is not young 
any longer, but where the affections are concerned 
years are not counted, and love acknowledges no 
age. I have never thought you one of those flighty, 
silly girls, who act without thought, and imagine 
every thing gold where they see a glitter. Do not 
disappoint me now. This is all I have to say upon 
the subject; all else I leave to you. I thought it my 
duty to put the chief points in this matter before you, 
but it is left to you to decide.” 

The heavy responsibility of the matter, as well as 


io6 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


the sudden revelation of her friend’s true feelings to- 
wards her, had, in a measure, benumbed Edith’s 
judgment, and therefore she thought it the wisest 
plan to put the subject from her mind as much as 
she could, for a few days, at least, and then, when she 
should be able to reason more clearly and in cooler 
blood, to give the whole a fair trial, and careful con- 
sideration. She had, at the same time, a dim convic- 
tion that the more or less yearning of her heart after 
his company, as the days would go by, might prove 
about the surest compass to indicate towards which 
direction her feelings pointed. 

The first day she devoted herself, entirely, to fixing 
up the cottage with the little fancy articles she had 
brought with her, mostly parting gifts from her 
friends, and in going about the field with her Grand- 
mother. The second day, she remembered that her 
kind friend had once remarked that white curtains 
gave an attractive, neat look to a cottage, and that 
his eyes always liked to linger at a place through 
whose green foliage the white-curtained windows 
peeped. Accordingly, she searched among her 
clothes for an old, white muslin dress, that she had 


AT LAST. 


107 


laid by, and the whole day was spent in hemming 
and stitching the cloudy drapery, and when the even^ 
ing came, and the windows were shrouded in the 
smoothly-ironed muslin, she went out upon the road 
to notice the effect, smiling to herself in childish glee, 
and fancying how he would like it the next time he 
came. The third day, she thought that as she had 
not sung his favorite air for him the day he was last 
here, and when he had asked her to do so — and she 
blushed, and a feeling akin to joy shot through her 
heart, as she remembered what else he had requested 
of her— she might as well do so to-day, that she 
might learn to sing it the way he liked it best; 
and she went to the piano,- and sang it so often 
and patiently, that her grandmother wondered, what 
in the world might be the reason that the child 
would continue to sing that old song, in which she, 
at least, could not discover so much beauty ? The 
fourth day she was chiefly occupied in her room, sit- 
ting, lost in idle dreaming, rehearsing the words he 
had spoken on that evening — there was only one 
evening for her now — smiling happy smiles, as she 
repeated some fond expressions, and wondering what 


io8 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


he was doing now, and whether he also was thinking 
of her? The fifth day seemed inexpressibly long; 
she wished the week had passed, and her kind friend 
would come. The sixth was one of great inward ex- 
citement. He would be here to-morrow, she said to 
herself, a hundred times. He would tell her again 
how dear she was to him, and she — and a beautiful 
blush mantled her brow, and she covered her face 
with her hands. 

The seventh, it was like a holy day to her. 

Do you think. Grandmother, he will come in the 
morning, or in the afternoon ?” and her voice trem- 
bled, her cheeks glowed, and in her eyes burned a 
fire that betrayed the inward struggle to appear com- 
posed. ^ 

It is likely that he will be here at his usual time, 
in the afternoon,” replied Mrs. Adlaw, quietly, feel- 
ing by no means calm, for she was ignorant which 
way her grandchild would decide. 

Do you not think he might come sooner, to-day ? 
You know. Grandmother — to-day P' 

He might, my dear; but, still, we can do nothing 
but wait.” 


AT LAST. 


109 


Edith suppressed a sigh. 

Five o’clock ; he had not yet arrived. Edith was 
leaning against the fence, looking anxiously up the 
road. 

Six o’clock ; still alone, watching for him. A deep 
sadness had stolen over her face, and her gaze tried 
to pierce the falling darkness. Night; and he had 
not come. 

Mrs. Adlaw also was disappointed, but tried to 
hide it; telling Edith that a business man is not 
always master of his time, and that, very likely, 
he had been prevented by some urgent cause. 
When Mrs. Adlaw, that evening, bade good-night to 
her grandchild, and saw the countenance, from 
which all light had gone out, she rejoiced within 
herself, for she now knew the answer Mr. Raymond 
would get. 

The eighth day passed in useless waiting, and 
Edith threw herself, sobbing, upon her bed that 
night, murmuring, he, too, has left me. He has re- 
pented ; and I love him so fondly.” 

The tenth day, as Edith was sitting on the bench, 
depressed and dispirited, she heard her name pro- 
10 


I 10 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


nounced, and raising her eyes quickly, she saw him 
standing before her. Had her life depended upon it, 
she could not have spoken then. She felt choking 
with various emotions, but, at last, she managed to 
say, almost inaudibly, and with a sad and trembling 
voice, ‘‘ O, Sir ! you have come at last.” 

Too soon, I fear, to hear what I dread to hear,” 
he replied, deceived by her quiet bearing. 

I counted every hour of each day. Sir,” she went 
on, in the same low tone, ''and rejoiced at every day 
that had passed, for it brought your coming nearer ; 
but when the seventh and eighth days had gone, and 
the ninth went by without bringing you, I believed 
that you had reconsidered, and repented, O, Sir!” 
and her lips began to quiver, and her eyes to fill, 
and her voice grew husky with pain, " why did you 
not leave me alone when I was happy? Why had 
this cruel blow to come from jy<9U — -from you T' 

Mr. Raymond listened with breath suspended; 
but when she had finished, with her hand pressed 
tightly to her heart, as if to still some pain, he went 
quickly up to her. " Repented, ' Sweetheart ?’ Of 
what should I repent ? Of nothing, but that I could 


AT LAST. 


Ill 


not come at the time I had promised. Then you 
have waited for me, darling, and remembered me and 
my words ?” 

Waited for you ? Aye — longed for your coming. 
Remembered you. Sir?” and a brilliant smile lit up 
her features; '‘I have remembered nothing, but that 
you were not with me. I have repeated your words 
and treasured them, until I believed them to have 
been only words — expressions you had repented of. 
Then, Sir, I was unhappy — very unhappy !” 

‘‘ But if I repeat what I have told you before, that 
I love you, and that you are all to me, and if I ask 
again, will you be my own dear wife, then what an- 
swer would I receive ?” 

She raised her eyes, for an instant, to his, then 
dropping them quickly, said, '' you know my answer 
now.” 

Do you love me truly, Edith ? Does nothing but 
your heart prompt you to speak thus ?” 

She looked up at once. Do you think. Sir, I 
would reward your love with a lie ?” 

'' My own, my ‘ Sweetheart,’ at last 1” he exclaimed, 
with a voice tremulous \vith deep emotion, and press- 


I 12 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


ing her to his heart, said, fondly, my own ‘ little 
one,’ now.” 

Why did you not come. Sir, on the day you 
promised ?” 

Because, just when on the point of starting, I re- 
ceived a telegram, so urgent that I had to go home 
at once. I did it reluctantly; still there was no help 
for it; I had to go. In one respect, I was glad to 
let you have a few more days to consider, for I 
wished you to think well before you should decide. 
Besides, I dared not hope that you wished me back 
so fondly.” 

“You are with me now, and all is forgotten; all 
but that you love me.” 

“ Edith, do not call me 'Sir’ any longer; call me” — 

“ It is the name,” she interrupted him, “ by which 
you have grown dear to me ; you will be ' Sir,’ to me, 
always ; no other name could I pronounce so fondly.” 

“ Then have your wish, ' little one,’ and let me be 
your ‘ Sir.’ ” 


A SHOCK. 


II3 


CHAPTER XIIL 

A SHOCK. 

Day after day now passed in perfect happiness. 
Joys hitherto unknown to Edith brightened her 
heart, and feelings strangers until now beautified 
everything around her. Her betrothed became 
dearer to her with every meeting, and her love for 
him grew to be the all-absorbing passion of her 
heart. To see him, to be with him, was her only 
pleasure, and the regret she fek at every parting was 
only stifled by the thought that the next day would 
again bring him to her side. 

He was only too glad that it should be so. In- 
stead, as had been his wont formerly, of spending the 
afternoon with her, he came now in the morning, re- 
maining until sunset. The flush of joy that dyed her 
cheek when she greeted him, and the sparkling eyes 
that told him that her heart was wishing for his 
coming, were dearer to him than gold and jewels, 


lO' 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


1 14 

and the tender love that shone from those truthful 
orbs assured him that she was all his own. When 
they walked together under the shade of the trees, 
she gathered flowers to form into a bouquet for him 
to take home, that he might have something to re- 
mind him of her until the morrow ; how sweet and 
clinging, how loving and childlike all her move- 
ments ; no wish, save to please him, no thought, but 
to show how dear he was to her. 

Two weeks had passed thus, and the time had 
come for Mr. Raymond to return home. Although 
she knew that this time had to come, deep sadness 
filled her heart when he told her so. 

''You will come back again soon?” she asked, im- 
ploringly, while large tears gathered slowly in her 
eyes. 

"You know, 'little one,’ that nothing but necessity 
takes me from your side, and that I shall not remain 
away one hour longer than is actually necessary; and 
then, dearest, when I come back we must settle the 
day of our marriage. Not so ?” he asked, as he saw 
her blush, but received no answer. 


" So soon. Sir?” she asked, timidly. 


A SHOCK. 


II5 

^^You forget, ^Sweetheart,”' he said, fondly, ‘‘ that 
I have waited longer than a year. I am no longer 
young, and every hour is a loss. Well, Edith, shall 
it not then be decided?" 

As you wish. Sir." 

That is right, darling. Now let me bid good-bye 
to your grandmother, and then I must go. You 
must take great care of my treasure, Mrs. Adlaw," he 
said to the old woman ; I shall be back in three 
weeks, at the latest. I shall send you books and 
music, Edith, before I leave L., to occupy your time 
with, while I am absent. Now, ' little one,' will you 
walk with me to the road, so that we may be a little 
longer together ?" 

They had reached the end of the path, and Edith 
held fast to his arm, as if she believed that would 
keep him from leaving her, when Mr. Raymond said, 
let us sit down together- upon this stone, I have to 
tell you something which your grandmother and 
myself have kept from you until now. My name, 
Edith," and he looked earnestly into her eyes, '' is 
not Sulgar." 

“Why" — she interrupted him quickly, and with a 


HIS SWEETHEART, 


I l6 

pained voice — ‘‘why, Sir, have you deceived me? 
An untruth, Sir — an untruth, and from you !” and 
the tears rolled slowly down her suddenly blanched 
cheeks, and her hand loosened its hold on his arm. 

How this one little act smote him. He felt as if 
he had received a bl9w. You put too much import- 
ance upon it, ‘little one,”’ he said, almost entreatingly, 
“ and, if you remember, I never told you that Sulgar 
was my name. You asked me under which name 
you should remember me, and I told you, ‘ Sulgar.’ 
Do you recollect, Edith ?” 

“ I do. Sir but still her voice was sad, and she 
kept her looks averted from his face. 

“ This is nothing serious, my darling, after all,” he 
said, coaxingly, trying to turn her face towards him. 
“What does a name matter? Our reason was, at 
that time, a good one ; ask your grandmother for an 
explanation. We thought it best; what harm has it 
done ?” 

“ None, that I know of. Sir, only — only it was not 
quite the truth, and that is — that makes me fear for 
the consequences. However, I will try to believe 


A SHOCK. 


II7 

that you were right,” she added, forcing herself to 
appear convinced. “ But what is your name ?” 

“Maurice Raymond,” he said, smilingly. “How 
do you like it ?” 

No answer came from those lips, which grew 
white as snow. No smile, responded to his, from 
those eyes, growing larger and darker every instant. 
At last she got up, slowly, and, as if unconscious, re- 
peated with agitated voice, “ Maurice Raymond ?” 
Then looking at him long and sadly, murmuring, “ it 
was an untruth,” she broke into a flood of tears, fol- 
lowed by sobs that shook her whole frame, and 
startled him nearly into madness. 

“ Edith, my dearest child, you take this too seri- 
ously,” he cried. “ Believe me, my own, dear dar- 
ling. Let me tell you all; or let us go back, and you 
may ask your grandmother.” 

“You misunderstand me. Sir. I believe all that 
you say. Why have you done this ?” she wailed out. 

“ There must be some other reason for your un- 
accountable manner. Tell me, dearest, and let me 
explain away your trouble.” 




ii8 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


'' Let US part now, Sir,” she said, quietly ; I must 
be alone.” 

I must bring you home, ' little one I cannot 
part from you thus.” 

‘'No, Sir; I must go home alone; and you will 
write soon ?” 

“You maybe sure of that, dearest. Do you feel 
better now? Shall I not go home with you, dar- 
ling ?” and he took her face between his hands, look- 
ing long and fondly into her eyes. “ Do you love 
me truly, and from your heart ?” 

A sad smile parted her lips, while she said, “ O, 
Sir! I love you only too well. I love no one but 
you.” Throwing her arms passionately around his 
neck, she quickly left him. 

Her future, only a little while ago so bright, and 
clad in such radiant colors, had suddenly been robbed 
of its sunshine and smiling promise. The horizon 
of her happiness, so clear and cloudless in its out- 
lines, was now overcast with darkness, that threat- 
ened to fold her in its dense and awful shadows. 
Quickly she went her way back to the house, large, 
hot tears rolling silently down her blanched cheeks, 


A SHOCK. 


I 19 

her hands clasped tightly before her, a still despair 
settled upon her features, and the stern expression 
around her mouth more distinctly visible than ever. 
Now and then a deep sigh heaved her breast, and, at 
last, she murmured, angrily, between her tightly 
closed teeth, *Svhy must he come between me and 
happiness ? Was it not sufficient that he let me feel 
that he considered me his inferior, by playing with 
my feelings, and then throwing me off? Must he 
also take from me my only joy, my only treasure? 
Separate me from the heart that loves me so w^ell and 
faithfully ?’' and she clenched her hand, and angry 
sparks flashed from her eyes. 

Arrived at home, she bid her grandmother a hasty 
good-night, and hurried to her room. There she sat 
long, lost in thought, as was visible by the varying 
expression of her countenance; she was fighting a 
hard battle within herself, and when it was over, and 
the resolve taken, she said, in a sad, yet resolute tone, 
to herself, yes ; I must do it ; it is the right way for 
me to pursue, though my heart bleed, and every fibre 
of my body cry out against it. I must follow that 
path, for it is the right one. What will he think of 


120 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


me ? Will he think me fickle and inconstant?” Her 
features began to work convulsively, and tear after 
tear coursed down her cheeks. O, it is hard — very 
hard !” she cried, giving way to her trouble, and sob- 
bing aloud and passionately. ‘‘ But,” she resumed, 
after she became quieter, can I allow him to marry 
me, that his son may mock at him afterwards, and 
point to me, and say, ' she was good enough for you, 
Father; you have passed the bloom of youth; but I, 
young, with the whole world yet before me, I thought 
her beneath me.’ Shall I be the cause, that my 
good, noble, generous friend might thus be spoken 
of? No; a thousand times no! It is for me to 
draw back; for me to save him from such humilia- 
tion. There is yet another reason, why I must act 
thus. Did he not tell me once that he is a jealous 
friend, a most exacting master ? Might not, then — if 
his son should hint that he had met me before — my 
friend conclude that, perhaps, that was the man whom 
I had once loved; and might not suspicion awake, 
and whisper to him, ‘she loves him still?’ Might he 
not then, thus guided, misjudge me, and every look 
and act of mine, until wretchedness would settle 


A SHOCK. 


I2I 


among us, and misery and unhappiness dwell in our 
house and hearts ?” She shuddered, when she 
thought of the sad consequences this marriage might 
bring in its train, for him even more than for herself, 
for he would think himself wronged by two who 
were dear to him — by his child, and by his wife. 

No, no !” she cried, with a voice full of horror, ‘‘ it 
must not be; it cannot be! To save him from 
misery I must give him up, while it is yet time 1 I 
will wait his coming, and, face to face, will I tell him 
that I can never— never be his wife. At the same 
time, I will beg of him to believe that he only is in 
this heart, and that none other ever shall replace him, 
who is so good and noble. He must believe me, and 
even if I cannot tell him the reason of my resolution, 
he will believe that it is not fickleness nor want of 
love that induces me to act thus.” 

Had Edith known more of the light in which the 
two — father and son — stood to each other ; that they 
were not mere relations, but also friends, good, well- 
meaning friends, she would have known that in no 
way need she have feared for Mr. Raymond, and that 
his father’s happiness was as dear to his son as it was 


122 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


to herself. But she knew nothing of this. She judged 
Maurice Raymond even more severely than he de- 
served, for she had learned to know him from his 
weakest side, and he had offended and hurt her at her 
most sensitive point — her pride. Had she loved him 
fondly, as she now loved his father, she might have 
found it easier to forgive him. This forgiveness 
might have been mingled with sorrowful regret at his 
rejecting her true devotion, but she would have felt 
neither bitterness nor resentment, as she did now, at 
the thought of him. 

With heavy eyes and languid step, Edith made her 
appearance the next morning, and Mrs. Adlaw won- 
dered at the deep sorrow that she seemed to suffer 
from her intended’s absence ; but she abstained from 
making any remark. But after two days had passed, 
and Edith’s despondency seemed to increase, she 
thought some well-meant reproof might be of advan- 
tage, and therefore she said, My child, when I saw 
you sad and downcast the first day after Mr. Ray- 
mond’s departure, I thought it only natural, but when I 
see you growing more and more dispirited, I think it my 
duty to tell you that this is not only quite unnatural. 


A SHOCK. 


123 


but even selfish. Had your intended died, you could 
not show more mournfulness ; and if he had jilted you 
your grief could not be deeper. Instead of this, he 
has only left you for a short space of time, promising 
to return in the shortest time possible. Therefore, I 
must consider your sorrow very unreasonable, and 
even inconsiderate to myself” 

“ Dear Grandmother,” said Edith, sadly, putting 
her arms fondly around the old woman’s neck, “ for- 
give me for thus giving way to my grief You are 
wrong, however, if you think that Mr. Raymond’s 
going away has created all this sorrow ; although, to 
a certain degree, I felt his leaving me deeply, yet I 
assuredly should not have persevered in my sadness 
thus long had I not other cause for sorrow and 
despondency.” 

'' My child, what has happened ?” inquired Mrs. 
Adlaw, anxiously. “ You had no difference with Mr. 
Raymond before his departure ?” 

‘‘ We had not. He told me that his name was not 
Sulgar, but Maurice Raymond, and that you and he 
had agreed that it might be best, at the time, not to 
tell me his real name. It shocked me at first — I will not 


124 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


conceal it — to learn that I had been deceived, even in 
such a slight matter, by the persons I trust most in 
this world, and because I believe that an untruth, 
ever so plausible, somehow always has misfortune in 
its train. But this would have been only a passing 
mortification, for I am persuaded that you meant it 
for the best, had not something else — something of 
which neither you nor he know any thing — come 
between me and him ; something, Grandmother, that 
must make our union impossible.” 

'' Child, child, do not speak thus ! ” cried the old 
woman, now really alarmed. ^^You must explain, 
and everything will be satisfactorily arranged. Some 
fancy of yours ; girls are so unreasonable sometimes ; 
really, I do not think that Mr. Raymond deserves 
that you should treat him with such fickleness.” 

“ O, Grandmother, Grandmother ! you, too ! you, 
too!” Edith exclaimed, laying her head upon her 
arm and sobbing bitterly. 

What else should he fancy ? To-day you tell 
him of your unwavering affection, and seem happy only 
in his presence ; to-morrow he leaves you, with words 
of endearment, and you declare that you cannot 


A SHOCK. 


125 


marry him. Unless you have sufficient reason to 
give for your extraordinary behavior, I must confess 
that neither he nor I can judge otherwise, but that 
either you have lost your senses, or that you are 
fickle.” 

Moans and sobs were Edith’s only answer. 

'' You have not told him so yet ?” 

'' Not yet; I shall wait until he returns.” 

'' Goodness gracious, child, you cannot be serious ! 
Your reasons — give me your reasons!” almost 
shrieked the agitated woman. 

'' I shall give none.” And her head was lifted 
quickly ; the tears dried in her eyes, and a determined 
expression set on the firm, full mouth. I love him 
truly ; love him with my whole heart ; ” and her 
voice trembled slightly, and by force she kept back 
the fast gathering drops ; but, nevertheless, / must 
not marry him. He may call me fickle,” and she 
threw back her head, proudly, or unreasonable, or 
ungrateful, or mad ; it will make no difference ; I 
shall bear that, too ; it will add to my sorrow, but it 
will not alter my resolution.” 

Mrs. Adlaw now knew that nothing would change 


126 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


Edith’s resolve. She knew, by the pained sound of 
her voice, that it was not want of affection that had 
forced her to this resolution ; also that her sufferings 
were great ; but she also knew, by the haughty 
motion of her head, that, suffer as she may, wrong 
her as they might, judge her as they pleased, Edith 
would adhere to her resolve, and no power upon 
earth -could turn her from what she evidently con- 
sidered right. With a troubled look, she followed 
her, as she went from the room, and murmured sadly 
to herself, ‘‘ And I have tried to make everything so 
well for her, and now some unlucky chance turns 
every thing wrong. Poor child, what will become of 
her ? What can become of her ? My days are num- 
bered, and each new week may bring my summons. 
Poor, dear gentleman ! his hopes destroyed, also ; his 
happiness marred for ever ! ” 


ONLY A FRIEND. 


127 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ONLY A FRIEND. 

The next day brought a parcel and a letter, books 
and music, with new assurances that she was con- 
stantly in his mind. Her tears flowed freely as she 
opened the packet, and conflicting emotions disturbed 
her. 

Can you be so cruel, Edith, as to put into action 
your purpose, when you see how constantly he 
thinks of pleasing you ?” 

'' Do you think. Grandmother,’' and her voice was 
very low and tremulous, if my own love for him, 
and the knowledge of his great, constant love for me, 
cannot change my resolution, that your reproaches 
will ? No, Grandmother ; were my reason a childish 
one, based on a foolish caprice or idle whim, perhaps 
you might, by reasoning or lecturing, turn me from 
my resolve ; but the cause I have for breaking my 


128 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


engagement is not based upon such slight grounds. 
I tell you again, that it is more for his happiness that 
I shall act thus than for my own. I well know, 
Grandmother, that, by persevering in my intention, I 
shall suffer most, and you must not fancy that I sur- 
render my chance of happiness without having well 
thought over all the consequences. I have not only 
to give up the man whom I esteem, honor, and love 
most upon earth, but also risk the chance that he 
will look henceforth with contempt upon me. This 
thought alone ” — and her hands became interlaced in 
despair — “ is so fearful to me that, if I dwell upon it, 
it almost induces me to abstain from my intention. 
My future life, to fill up the catalogue of my misery, 
will be wrapped in darkness, and all light will have 
faded from my path. You, Grandmother,” and a 
loving caress accompanied her words, '' will, sooner 
or later, leave me, also ; yes, I have thought 
of this, too,” she said, answering a look of Mrs. 
Adlaw ; and then, I shall be alone in this world — 
alone,” she repeated, with a tired, weary look in her 
eyes. All alone. No one to love me; no one to 
guide me ; no one to sympathize with me in my 


ONLY A FRIEND. 


129 


trouble.’' The fast falling tears hindered her from 
speaking more. She sat down by her grandmother, 
and the two women — incarnated youth and age — 
twined their arms around each other and mingled 
their tears. A long silence followed. At last Edith 
said, almost inaudibly, Do you not pity me. Grand- 
mother ? Are you still angry with me ?” 

‘‘ My poor, poor darling ; if you only would con- 
fide in me, perhaps I might advise you.” 

“ Believe me, Grandmother, it is best that I should 
not do so; let us not speak of it any more.” 
They clasped their hands in silence, and Mrs. Adlaw 
promised to refrain from further interference. 

These were dreary days and weeks in which Edith 
waited Mr. Raymond’s coming. A time in which 
her affections pleaded most powerfully with her sense 
of right and wrong. Yet, goaded almost to madness 
with the conflicting emotions in her breast, and 
brought nearly to despair by the tortures she endured, 
she still held to her belief that, suffer as she might, it 
was her duty to sacrifice her love, to say farewell to 
happiness, and remain true to the resolve she had 
made. 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


130 

It was her habit to go every evening to the garden 
gate, from which she could overlook the path by 
which he had to come, and, whether she expected 
him or not, there remain until the sun had set. 

She was waiting there one evening, thinking of him 
and the blow she would strike when next they should 
meet, wishing in her inmost heart that that day might 
be still further off, yet, at the same time, yearning to 
see him again. Suddenly she gave a start, and the 
blood rushed to her head ; it flushed her cheeks 
until they burned and smarted ; it raced into her 
temples and made them throb and pain ; tingled in 
her ears, and coursed, as if wild waves were dashing 
to and fro. Her heart almost ceased its beating ; her 
hands grew icy cold, and her knees seemed to give 
way beneath the weight of her body ; for there, com- 
ing toward her, was Mr. Raymond. What shall I 
say ? How receive him ?’’ she kept asking herself 
He noticed her, and hurried his steps ; and in sheer 
despair and agony of mind she laid down her head, 
and cried* as if her heart were breaking. 

‘ Little one,’ my ' Sweetheart,’ waiting for me!” 
and he raised her head with loving tenderness. 


ONLY A FRIEND. 


I3I 

“What, Edith!” he exclaimed, with consternation. 
“ No smiles, no loving words ; only tears to welcome 
me ?” 

“ O, Sir, why have you come ?” And her tears 
flowed more profusely, as she witnessed the pained 
look that came into his eyes. 

“ Why have I come ?” he repeated to himself, 
trying to believe he had not heard aright. “ Surely, 
Edith, you — you do not mean what you say. My 
unexpected arrival may be thoughtless. I should 
have informed you of my corning. Let us go to the 
house, ‘ little one,’ ” he said, soothingly. “ This sur- 
prise has been too much for you. Your grand- 
mother, is she quite well ?” 

A sad smile parted her lips, and her eyes rested 
beseechingly on his. “ Yes, Sir, she is well, but — let 
me speak to you here ; let me unburden my mind 
now, before we go to the house.” 

“ Must I not come in, ‘ little one ?’ ” he asked. 
“ Will you not open the gate for me ?” 

She stepped back, and he pressed her to his heart 
the next moment. “There, darling, lay your head 
here until you feel composed. Let me look in your 


132 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


eyes as they smile the welcome your lips bestowed 
so grudgingly.” 

She complied with his request, but tear after tear 
rained down upon his hand, as it held her’s in loving 
clasp. '' For the last time. Sir, for the last time.” 

“ Is there, indeed, a reason that makes you behave 
so strangely, Edith ?” He drew back a little, to 
observe her face. 

There is. Sir — I — I must not marry you.” 

''Edith!” and his face contracted in displeasure; 
" such jokes do not become you.” 

A deep-drawn sigh escaped her, and she said, 
" this is no joking matter with me. Although my 
life will, henceforth, be blighted, I must repeat again, 
'/ must not marry you! ” 

He looked long and earnestly at her; then break- 
ing into a harsh laugh, he cried, " this is admirably 
done; perfectly acted. We have considered it all 
over. W e have become alive to the fact that we are 
beautiful, accomplished, and charming, and we have 
come to the conclusion that, if we are able to charm 
an old man, we might easily entrap a young one, 
who would place his heart and fortune at our feet 


ONLY A FRIEND. 


133 


Who can blame you, Edith,” he continued, bitterly, 
“that after your eyes had opened on these facts, you 
mean to use your power, and turn out, like so many 
other ladies, heartless and fickle, a flirt and a co- 
quette. What does it matter ” — he went on, almost 
savagely, not perceiving how the color fled from her 
face, leaving it deadly pale ; how her eyes opened in 
pained surprise, filling gradually with horror and 
despair ; her hands raised in appeal, stretching out as 
if to ward off some fearful blow ; and how they fell 
powerless at her side, and her head sunk, as if 
crushed, upon her breast — “ whether that old doting 
fool of a lover feels pained by it, whether his hopes 
will be crushed, his joys receive their death-blow, his 
most cherished wishes be dashed to the ground i 
What is all this to the fine lady, after she had” — 

“ Stop !” interrupted an imperious, ringing voice, 
and Edith, with proudly raised head and flashing 
eyes, stood close before him. “ Stop, Maurice Ray- 
mond, before you say more than I should be able to 
forgive. I have listened to you thus far — submis- 
sively, because you have a right to feel wronged ; 
tremblingly, because I feared, when I made this de- 




12 


134 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


termination, that you might look with contempt upon 
me, hearing my resolve, yet not knowing the reasons 
for my changed conduct ; despairingly, for I saw my 
worst anticipations verified. But now I stand face to 
face with you, proudly, because I can look you in the 
eyes without blushing, and can truthfully tell you 
no such debasing thoughts ever entered my mind. 
Nothing but love — faithful, honest, and undying love 
for you — has filled my heart, and will so, to my last 
day. I forgive you. Sir,” she added, sadly, “ for thus 
cruelly misjudging me. Your heart must be sore, and 
your feelings are deeply hurt. You are angry with 
me now ; have thoughts of contempt for me in your 
breast ; but I hope and beg that it will not always be 
so ; that at some future time, when your feelings are 
less ruffled, you will think of your ‘ little one,’ ” — here 
her voice grew husky, and Mr. Raymond drew 
nearer to her side — “ as you first knew her. Perhaps 
you will then believe that she also suffered — more 
than you, perhaps, for,” and her voice was still 
lower, “with you and your love, she loses all that 
makes life worth having — and that, perhaps, she 
might have had a good reason thus to act, which in- 


OxNLY A FRIEND. 


155 


volved your happiness, as well as hers. I had 
thought, as I pictured this scene to myself, that, may 
be, you might believe and judge me less harshly, and 
then. Sir — then ” — 

'' What then ?” he cried, clasping her passionately 
to his heart. ‘‘ What ? Any thing, darling, only for- 
give me for my cruel, cruel words ; but, dearest, I 
was beside myself with pain and grief.'’ 

Then I should have asked you,” she continued, 
to remain my friend. O, Sir !” she cried, piteously, 
'' if you are gone, and my dear old grandmother also 


N 


leaves me, I shall be so quite alone.” She moaned 
out the last words as if her heart were breaking, and 
her eyes sought his with a look of such entire deso- 
lation, that he could say nothing, but repeat Mrs. 
Adlaw’s words, ‘"'my poor, poor child.’ If I must 
give up the hope of having you for my own dear 
wife, I promise you, solemnly, that I shall remain 
your faithful, loving friend, as hitherto. But, ' little 
one,’ tell me your reasons, and let me hope, at least, 
that there might come a time when the cause which 
separates us now may be removed, and we may be 
happy.” 



X 




136 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


“ I can hold out no such hope, Sir, for I do not be- 
lieve they will ever cease to exist.'' 

‘‘Then, ‘little one,' let us not speak any more 
about it, at present. We still belong to each other, 
and although I must not now take you home with 
me, let us be happy as we are." 

Edith raised his hand to her lips, impressing pas- 
sionate kisses upon it, murmuring, “ most generous 
and noble friend." 

Although Mr. Raymond tried to make light of the 
matter, his heart was heavy and sore within him. 
His love for her, however, was so great and unselfish, 
that, not to distress her still more, he assumed an 
almost gay and joyful demeanor, telling her that he 
would remain a whole week in L., and consequently 
that they would see each other daily. “You know, 
‘little one,' we only have to consider ourselves as 
engaged to each other for an uncertain length of 
time, and I do not see why we should not be con- 
tented this way, as well as if our wedding were to 
have been in a month." 

She gazed at him with tears in her eyes, for his 
behavior did not, in the least, deceive her. She 


ONLY A FRIEND. 


137 


judged him by herself, and. knew that sorrow was in 
his heart, although his lips spoke consoling words, 
and his eyes smiled upon her. She felt almost adora- 
tion for the man who loved her so dearly that, for 
her peace sake, he was able to put back his trouble 
into the furthest recess of his heart, and show her 
only kindness and consideration. 

Mrs. Adlaw rejoiced that this dreaded matter had 
taken such an unexpected turn. She had no particu- 
lar wish to have Edith married, so long as she was 
able to protect her ; and now, since their grief was 
reduced to uneasiness only, she did not mind so much 
to have her still longer with her, hoping that before 
her own death all might yet assume a more pleas- 
ant aspect, and that after that event, even if they 
should not marry, Mr. Raymond would continue to 
befriend her grandchild. 

Thus the week passed in comparative happiness. 
Edith brightened up again, satisfied if he was with 
her. Only Mr. Raymond, when thinking himself 
unobserved, would grow thoughtful, and his features 
lose the expression of happiness that was wont to 
rest there. At parting, instead of taking her into his 
* 




I 2 


13 ? 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


arms, he only raised her hands fondly to his lips, an- 
swering her questioning looks with, ^'we remain 
friends, ‘ little one,’ faithful friends.” 

‘‘ Thank you. Sir,” she answered, almost humbly, 
‘Tor thinking me worthy of it. You will come 
again ?” she asked, eagerly, breathlessly awaiting his 
answer. 

“ You wish it, Edith ?” he asked, gently. 

“ Sir !” she cried, in a grieved tone, “ for mercy’s 
sake, do not doubt me !” 

“ I shall come again, in a month.” 


A LEGACY. 


139 


CHAPTER XV. 

A LEGACY. 

Mr. Raymond had only once taken counsel with 
Mrs. Adlaw, in this matter, inquiring whether she had 
any suspicion as to the cause of her grandchild's 
altered conduct ; but she could not enlighten him, 
knowing no more than he did. She told him of her 
conviction that Edith suffered dreadfully ; but, never- 
theless, she was persuaded that her grandchild would 
remain true to her determination. She had seen 
in Edith's eyes that which made her sure of 
her unwavering devotion for him, but she also 
had read that in her countenance which made her 
firmly believe that the child would never change her 
mind, until circumstances should arise to alter the 
aspect of things, making it appear right to her that 
she should recede from her purpose. Thus Mr. 
Raymond knew that he had, for the present, no more 
to hope for. 


140 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


To Edith, he had never alluded to the subject 
nearest their hearts, except on the last day of his 
second visit ; then he said, holding her hand, in part- 
that reason, Edith, will you not impart it to 
me ? But she had answered, with such an entreat- 
ing look, Why will you force me. Sir, to repeat 
what I know must pain you?” that he had only 
sighed, stroking her hand gently, as if to soothe her, 
and had asked, will you promise me, that if this 
reason be removed, you then will, of your own free 
will, wherever you may be, let me know, and 
fulfill your promise, and become my own ?” 

I promise, faithfully * but do not deceive yourself 
with false hopes, for I repeat that I do not believe 
it ever will be removed.” 

Edith noticed, with sorrow, at his last visit, that 
his hair was bleached more than before, and she 
thought she perceived in the sound of his voice, 
and in the expression of his features, a sadness that 
never before had been there, and her heart grew 
heavy, knowing that it was she who had brought it 
there. 

In the first week of November he paid her another 


visit. He told her then that they would not see 
each other for some time. Noticing her frightened 
expression, he said, assuringly, do not misconstrue 
my words, ‘ little one Christmas is drawing near, 
and business requires me at home at this time. My 
family also demand my presence. I cannot be away 
from home at Christmas ; had it been otherwise, we 
might have enjoyed that time together.^’ He looked 
earnestly into her eyes, but receiving no answer, 
continued, I long, as much as you, that we should 
be as often together as possible ; but I have other 
ties, which have also to be considered. The first 
week after New Year’s day, however, ‘little one/ we 
shall see each other again.” 

Mr. Raymond was sitting, one morning, in his 
office, with his son, Maurice ; both were over head 
and ears in business. The letters had been brought 
up, and Mr. Raymond was opening them, one by 
one. His son, who was working at the same desk 
with his father, on looking up, noticed, with surprise, 
his agitated features, and the trembling hand, in 
which he held an open letter. 


142 


HIS SWEETHEAKT. 


“ Bad news, Father ?” he asked, concerned, “ and 
where from ?” 

“ I must leave tpwn immediately,” was the startling 
answer. 

“ Now, Father ? This is unfortunate, for we are in 
the midst of business ; besides, it is only one more 
week to Christmas. Is the case so very urgent ?” 

“ Nothing more serious, my son, than death— the 
death of an esteemed friend. of mine.” Mr. Raymond 
had pronounced this with a voice so solemn that 
Maurice, awed by it, answered, “ This alters the case. 
When do you go ?” 

“ At once. The train leaves in half an hour. I do 
not think that I shall be back before Christmas. 
However, you must see to all, Maurice, and work for 
two.” 

“You may depend upon me. Father. Where do 
you go to ?” 

“ To L.” 

Yes, Mrs. Adlaw was dying, and this was the news 
that disturbed Mr. Raymond in the midst of work. 
The letter that brought him this sad intelligence con- 


A LEGACY. 


143 


tained only three words — without signature or name 
of place and time — Grandmother is dying!' 

When Mr. Raymond arrived he found Edith near 
the bed of the dying woman. She reached out her 
hand when he entered, whispering, She is slumber- 
ing. She took sick a week ago, and the doctor says 
that in a day or so all will be over.” Covering her 
face with her hands, she wept, in silent agony. 

The noise awoke the patient, and, opening her eyes 
and joerceiving him, she said, while a glad smile lit up 
her sunken features, ''You have come. I knew you 
would not fail us. Edith, at first, would not write, 
saying that she knew you could not leave home now, 
but I insisted.” 

" You were right, Mrs. Adlaw ; I should never have 
forgiven myself if Edith were alone in her sore 
trouble.” 

"A few days more. Sir, and .she will be all alone,” 
she said, with a sad, mournful look at her grandchild. 

" She need not be,” he answered, with an expressive 
look toward Edith. 

A redoubled burst of grief was her answer. 

" I know what you wish to imply,” replied Mrs. 


144 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


Adlaw to his meaning glance. '' I have spoken to 
her about it, begged her to give either her reason, or 
her consent to unite herself to you, before I shall 
leave this world, but all to no avail. I leave it to 
you now ; perhaps your persuasion may meet with 
more success.” 

For mercy’s sake,” cried Edith, in appealing 
accents, Tempt me not now — not nozv, Sir ! ” she 
exclaimed, almost beside herself with extreme dis- 
tress. '' It is ungenerous to urge me now — now^ at 
such a time as this, when my heart is bursting with 
the thought of losing my dear grandmother; with 
the knowledge that in future I shall stand alone in the 
world,, and — ” and she pressed her hand tightly to 
her heart — “ with the voice within me urging me to 
do what would be wrong, and bring misery upon both 
of us.” Rising hastily, she left the room. 

‘‘We are cruel,” said Mr. Raymond, after she had 
gone. “ I shall say no more. She knows that I 
would gladly take her home, to shelter her from all 
harm, and she promised me to ask me to do so, as 
soon as she thought it right. I shall trust her, and 
say no more.” 


A LEGACY. 


145 


“ We have no choice,” sighed Mrs. Adlaw ; “ but 
let us not waste the short time that is left to me yet 
in this world on this matter, but let me consult with 
you about my grandchild’s future. She has no home 
to go to. She cannot remain alone here. You are 
her only friend, but still you are, in a measure, insuffi- 
cient, for after my death you ought not_ to see Edith 
again. You know. Sir,” she added, as if to apologize, 
“ people might talk about it.” 

“ I understand you, and I know that you are 
correct This must be my last visit ; that is he 
hesitated, but she concluded, with a gentle smile — 
” until after my funeral. You may speak out without 
reserve. Sir, for the thought of death is not pai-nful to 
me ; it is a friend, whose appearance I have expected 
for many years — welcomed, I should say, if it 
were not for the thought of Edith. I never 
dreaded my departure from life, for I had wisely 
made the thought of it a pleasant one, by believing 
firmly that there I shall meet those who have gone 
before me, and knowing that this was only my 
temporary home. About this, my plan, I have spoken 
to Edith already, and she says that in every thing 




13 


146 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


she will accede to my wishes and yours; therefore, 
be pleased to listen to what I have to say. She has 
kept up a friendly correspondence with the family of 
Mr. Wolden. Might she not write to Mrs. Wolden, 
telling her of my death, and of the manner in which 
she is situated at present, mentioning, at the same 
time, that it is her wish to enter a family, either as 
governess or companion, and ask them whether they 
happen to know of a situation of this kind ? If they 
have kind hearts, this might induce them to offer her 
a home until she should be able to obtain a situation.” 

Mr. Raymond groaned aloud, ” My darling, my 
heart’s treasure, thus to be pushed forth into the 
hard, cold world ; and she so proud and sensitive ; it 
is almost more than I can bear.” 

s 

'' Her very pride, Sir, will help her to get along. 
But what do you think about my proposal ?” 

It is the only one, and therefore the best I 
will look about for a suitable family for her. 
She must not, if they should invite her to their house, 
remain there too long, as Edith would feel it too 
deeply, thinking, in her pride, that she might be a 
burden to her friends.” 


A LEGACY. 


147 


Then she must write at once ; I wish, if possible, 
to know the result of her letter.’' 

Edith was called, and the letter written. Mr. Ray- 
mond deposited it in his pocket, and said, ‘‘ As it 
has to be posted at once, I shall now take my leave, 
to return early to-morrow morning. You are not 
alone this night?” he inquired, before leaving the 
room. 

'' No, Sir,” answered Edith ; “ a kind neighbor 
comes every evening, since my grandmother’s sick- 
ness, to watch with me.” 

When the two women were alone again Mrs. 
Adlaw said, “Now, my child, this maybe my last 
night, who knows, though I wish it- not, for I am 
anxious for the answer from Freiburg. However, I 
must make use of every moment that is still granted 
to me to be with you. Therefore, I shall devote this 
hour, as we are all alone, to giving you my last 
legacy. I hope and pray that it may prove useful to 
you in the future. Take that key you see hanging 
above the door, and draw forth from underneath my 
bed the small trunk you see there.” 

Edith having complied with this request, Mrs. 


148 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


Adlaw resumed : Open the lid and slide your hand 
down to the bottom, on its right side.” 

“ I have done so, Grandmother.” 

Feel for a soft bundle, in the shape of a small 
cushion, and give it to me. Yes, this is the right 
one ; now leave me, my child ; let the door remain 
ajar, so that I can call you ; stay — raise me into a 
sitting posture.” 

Edith obeyed her request, and then went out, leav- 
ing the door half open. 

Alone, Mrs. Adlaw opened the white linen cloth, 
yellow from age, with trembling hands, and, examin- 
ing every article the parcel contained with scrutinizing 
eye, murmured, with a satisfied smile, while refolding 
and repinning the cloth, “ All right ; nothing is 
wanted. Poor child, I hope it will prove useful to 
her.” Then calling her back, she said, “ Take this, 
my dear, but promise me not to open it until you 
come of age. Y ou are twenty now ; one year more, 
and you may examine the contents of this package. 
Will you promise ?” 

I promise you. Grandmother.” 

“You may, then, do with it what you think best; 


A LEGACY. 


149 


if you wish to advise with Mr. Raymond about it, 
perhaps he can counsel you in the most fitting 
manner. Take it away ; I hear our kind neighbor 
entering the garden.'’ 

Next morning Mr. Raymond came early, remain- 
ing the whole day. Mrs. Adlaw was visibly sinking, 
but the physician said that it might be possible for 
her to survive another day. In the evening Mr. 
Raymond bade her farewell, saying that to-morrow 
he would not come until the afternoon train had 
arrived, as, possibly, it might bring an answer to 
Edith’s letter to Mrs. Wolden. Mrs. Adlaw^ said, 
‘‘by that time. Sir, I may not be able to speak to 
you again, therefore let me now thank you for all 
your unwavering kindness to us, and let me hear 
you say, once more, that you will always remain 
my granddaughter’s faithful friend.” 

Mr. Raymond was deeply moved, and the pitiful 
sobs of Edith added to his disquiet, but he mastered 
his emotion, and replied, clearly and firmly, “ my 
love for your grandchild is equal to yours, and 
will perish only with my last breath. Will this assur- 
ance satisfy you ?” 

13* 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


ISO 

‘'I thank you, Sir; and now, farewell to this 
world.’' A gentle smile lit up her features, and Mr. 
Raymond left her, wiping the tears from his eyes. 

The evening of the following day Edith met him 
at the door; her eyes w^ere swollen with weeping, and 
with tremulous voice, she said, O, Sir ! my grand- 
mother is almost gone.” 

He hurried into the room, holding up a letter he 
had taken from his breast. The dying woman saw 
it, and her lips moved. Edith bent down, and under- 
stood — '' Its contents — quick !” 

She tore it open, and read aloud — 

‘‘ My dearest child, we all sympathize deeply with 
you, in your sad affliction. You must make your 
home with us, at once. About your future plans, if 
you should not wish to alter them, we can talk when 
you are with us. Let me know the time of your 
arrival, and my husband will await you at the depot. 

“Yours, affectionately, Mary Wolden.” 

A gentle smile passed over Mrs. Adlaw’s coun- 
tenance ; her hands folded, as if in prayer ; her eyes 


A LEGACY. 


I5I 

closed; one deep, long-drawn breath, and the light 
had gone out forever. 

After Edith had paid love’s last tribute to the dead, 
she went, in company with Mr. Raymond, to the 
station, and shortly afterwards two heavy hearts were 
torn asunder, to be separated for weeks and months, 
perhaps, for years. 

He started at once for his home, on the last day 
before Christmas. 




\ 



152 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SUCCESS. 

Mournful thoughts were Edith’s companion on her 
journey to Freiburg. She was now separated from 
all that had once made life beautiful to her ; those 
whom she had lost, and who had been dearest to her, 
she had left behind. It was, therefore, like balm upon 
her bruised spirits, when, on her arrival at Freiburg, 
she felt the warm and kindly pressure of Mr. Wol- 
den’s hand, and listened to the heartfelt greeting, 
welcome to your new home, my dear friend,” of 
Lucy, his daughter. 

As they were driving home, Mr. Wolden said, 
“we wish, my dear Miss Adlaw, that you should con- 
sider our house your future home, until some one,” 
he added, pleasantly, “ to whom you will grant more 
rights, shall take you from us.” 

Edith colored, but answered, quietly, I feel your 
kindness deeply. Sir, and appreciate it with all my 


SUCCESS. 


IS3 


heart, yet I feel that I shall be best contented if I 
follow the plan which, in my letter I have already 
imparted to your wife.’' 

“We will not speak of this at present. Perhaps, 
after the lapse of some weeks, you will allow yourself 
to be influenced by my wife.” 

Edith was now three weeks in her new home, and 
had somewhat recovered her tranquillity. The con- 
siderate kindness by which she was surrounded, as 
also the entire change in her life, soothed her 
wounded heart, and refreshed her depressed spirits. 
Mrs. Wolden had spoken with her about her future, 
but, having vainly tried to persuade her from her 
purpose, saw, at last, that Edith would, indeed, feel 
happier, if she would follow her own way ; therefore, 
she said, “ I believe, my dear, that it is best to let you 
have your own wish, but remember that our arms are 
always open to receive you.” 

Edith had written to Mr. Raymond, informing him 
of her safe arrival, and also of the warm welcome she 
had received from her friends, begging him, at the 
same time, to use all his influence to procure her a 
suitable situation, for, she said, “ I could never feel 


154 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


happy while being dependent, though my friends try 
very hard to persuade me to make my home with 
them. They have, on my entreaty, promised to look 
about for me, and if you too unite your efforts in m.y 
behalf, I hope it will not b^ very long before I shall 
be settled for the future.” 

A fortnight after writing this letter she received 
one in return, in which Mr. Raymond informed her 
that, through the kindness of a friend, he had heard 
that in the neighborhood of C., there lived a Baron 
von Einsiedel, with his only daughter, the Countess 
von Metland, who was seeking a companion. He 
resides at his country seat, ' Einsiedel,’ ” the missive 
went on, which a century ago was a cloister. It is 
fifteen minutes’ walk from a small village called S., 
and, although solitary, is made very attractive by its 
romantic environs. This, ‘ little one,’ is all I know. I 
should not advise you to try to procure this situation, 
as companion to the Countess, had I not also heard 
that she is of a very amiable disposition, and also, be- 
cause I fervently hope that the time will not be very 
distant, when my ‘ little one ’ will call me to her side, 
to part no more. Ask Mr. Wolden, perhaps he 


SUCCESS. 


ISS 


knows the Baron ; or, if not himself, one of his 
friends. They might speak in your behalf, and 
through their influence you might get the situation.'' 

Edith spoke to Mrs. Wolden at once, and she ac- 
quainted her husband with the facts. He had never 
heard of the family, but thought it likely that his 
friend. General Potter, might. He therefore pro- 
ceeded to his house without delay. 

After a few hours’ absence he returned, announcing 
to Edith the pleasing news, that ‘The General knew 
Baron von Einsiedel quite well, although the latter 
was many years his senior, and that he had written to 
him at once, recommending her strongly. The 
General did not know the Countess personally, 
but had heard much of her beauty and goodness 
when a young girl, for she is now over forty years of 
age. She had been the attraction at the court for 
several years, when she married Count von Metland, 
to whom she was devotedly attached. After a few 
years of happy wedded life her husband died, and in 
the same year she lost her only child, a daughter. 
These heavy losses have thrown the Countess into 
great depression of spirit, which induced her to retire 


iS6 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


from the world with her father, who is now so old as 
to be liable to be called hence any day. At Einsiedel, 
his country seat, they reside in great seclusion. The 
Countess chooses for her companions only young 
ladies, preferring such to those of more advanced 
years. As the place is very solitary, and they live 
there like recluses, it is rather difficult to induce 
young ladies to seek the employment of even so kind 
and gentle a mistress. These are the statements of 
my friend. I told the General, however, that you 
were aware of the solitary situation of the estate, but 
that you, nevertheless, would take it as a favor, if he 
would intercede for you with the Baron von Einsie- 
del.” 

Soon after this General Potter received an answer, 
written by the Countess, in which she expressed, in 
the most flattering terms, her readiness to engage 
any one whom a gentleman so highly honored by 
her father might recommend ; but made it a particu- 
lar request, that the young lady in question should 
be informed of the very monotonous life she would 
have to lead, and how very gloomy an aspect the 
place of her future home presented, especially in 


SUCCESS. 


157 


winter. All this Edith was told, who, far from being 
daunted, rather rejoiced at the prospect of living 
apart from the world. If she only received kindness 
and shelter, she would ask no more. Another letter 
from herself reached Einsiedel, and an answer to that 
arranged everything satisfactorily. Edith was to be, 
the next Monday, at C., where, at the depot, a sleigh 
would await her, to convey her to her future home. 

Edith left Freiburg early on Monday, and toward 
evening reached C., where the Countess’ equipage 
awaited her. After having partaken of some slight 
refreshment, she entered the sleigh, filled with warm 
wraps and coverings of fur. Coachman and footman, 
after having attended to her comfort, most respectfully, 
took their seats, and she was driven to her future 
abode. 


14 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


158 


CHAPTER XVII. 

AT HER NEW HOME. 

In a few minutes they left the last houses of the 
city behind them. It was a clear, bitter cold day. 
Rapidly the sleigh flew over the smooth, snowy sur- 
face, past trees and bushes, alongside fields and 
murmuring brooks, gurgling and singing beneath 
their icy coverings, which, touched by the rays of the 
sun, sparkled in dazzling brilliancy. The air was 
bracing. Edith’s eyes shone, and her cheeks glowed. 
A sleigh ride was a novelty to her, and she enjoyed 
it accordingly. Her heart felt lighter, her spirits rose, 
and with inward pleasure she thought of her future 
duties, and the life that was in prospect for her. 

The sleigh had now reached S. The sound of the 
tinkling bells around the necks of the snorting, 
steaming steeds had brought curious eyes to the 
windows of the houses, to have a peep at the passing 


AT HER NEW HOME. 


159 


travelers, who dashed through the village, and now 
were entering a dense forest. The boughs of the 
large, tall trees, bending beneath their heavy loads of 
snow, creaked and sighed, and some fell, crushed by 
their weight. A hare, chased up from its lair by 
their approach, rapidly crossed their road and dis- 
appeared. A raven, perched upon a branch, croaked 
a doleful welcome with his hoarse voice, flew up, and 
alighted at some distance further. These were the 
only sounds, save the sleigh bells, Edith heard ; all 
else was silent — silent as the grave. Already she 
could discern, m the distance, the dark towers and 
walls of her new home. A few minutes more, and 
they had halted before a heavy massive portal, thickly 
studded with great iron nails. A high and solid stone 
wall surrounded the building. The footman stepped 
from his seat and rang a bell, whose far-off sound 
Edith could faintly hear in the distance. The portal 
opened by some invisible hand, and she entered an 
immense courtyard, paved with small stones, in whose 
centre a fountain spouted its crystal waters into a 
large stone basin. The footman accompanied her 
toward the house, in whose hall she was received by 



i6o 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


an old servant dressed in livery. Edith handed him 
her card, saying, “ Be pleased to tell her ladyship, the 
Countess von Metland, that I await her commands.” 
Then, sweeping past him, in proud indifference, she 
entered the room, whose door, with a profound bow, 
he held open for her. 

“ Most strange,” he muttered, as he went toward 
his mistress’ apartments, thoughtfully studying the 
card Edith had given him. After a short interval he 
came back, saying, “ ffer ladyship awaits you,” and 
led the way. 

It was night now, and the room into which she 
entered was dimly lighted by a couple of alabaster 
lamps. It was a spacious apartment, richly furnished. 

“ Miss Adlaw, my Lady,” announced the man, and 
placing a chair for her, he withdrew. 

“ Come hither, my dear,” called a sweet voice, from 
the depth of a well-cushioned arm chair. 

Edith advanced and bowed lowly before the 
speaker, who, even yet, at her matronly age, was lovely 
to look upon in the soft shade of the covered lamps, 
and, dressed in a loose dark velvet gown, trimmed 
with fur, her slippered feet resting upon an em- 


AT HER NEW HOME. 


l6l 


broidered cushion, was lying in a reclining attitude, 
examining Edith’s features almost anxiously. “ Draw 
this seat nearer, Dear, and sit down. May I call you 
Edith ?” she asked, quickly, yet hesitatingly. “ The 
name,” she added, apologizingly, “ is dear to me. ’ 

“If your Ladyship pleases, most certainly,” replied 
Edith at once, rejoiced at her kind reception. 

“ How did you like your journey ? It is very cold 
to-day.” 

“ I enjoyed it very much. The air was cold, yet 
fresh and pure.” 

“ I am glad to hear you say so ; then, perhaps, this 
place did not strike you as so very gloomy.” 

“ Almost everything looks desolate at this season 
of the year, my Lady, yet,” she added, with a look at 
the Countess, “ it looks the brighter within.” 

The Countess understood her meaning, smiled 
pleasantly, and said, “ I hope you will continue to 
think so, Edith ” — and it seemed to her as if her 
mistress lingered fondly over the name. “ You must 
be wearied, however ; will you be ready for me 
to-morrow morning at ten o’clock ?” 

14 * 




HIS SWEETHEART. 


162 

I shall be at your Ladyship’s service, at any hour 
you name.” 

An aged female servant entered the room now, 
summoned by her mistress’ bell. 

“Show Miss Adlaw to her rooms, Susanne, and 
see that all her wants are promptly attended' to.” 
So Edith retired for the night. 

“At what hour do you wish your breakfast, Miss? 
Her ladyship is accustomed to take hers alone in her 
rooms, and so does his lordship.” 

“ Let me have it, please, between eight and nine 
o’clock.” 

“Very well. Miss. If you wish for anything, you 
have only to ring this bell;” and with a low cour- 
tesey, the housekeeper withdrew. 

Edith now began to make herself comfortable for 
the night, and then sat down to write Mr. Ray- 
mond a minute description of the past week. Punc- 
tually at the hour named, next morning, Edith pro- 
ceeded to the Countess’ apartments, and was greeted 
in the most gracious manner. 

“ Now, my dear Edith, I must first inform you of 
the services I require from you,” her ladyship be- 


AT HER NEW HOME. 


163 


gan : '' I shall never need you before ten o’clock ; the 
hours until then are entirely left to your own dis- 
posal. Sometimes I shall not need you until twelve 
o’clock ; this depends entirely on how I may feel in 
the morning. I am fond of reading, conversation 
and music. In summer, we shall take walks to- 
gether, in which my father will sometimes join us. 
In winter, I leave the house seldom, but it does not 
follow that, therefore, you also should be deprived of 
the fresh air. You may take your walks whenever 
you are not occupied in my rooms. Two o’clock is 
our dinner hour. My companion has, hitherto, al- 
ways taken her meals with myself and my father, and 
I should -wish you to do the same. After dinner, I 
am in the habit of taking a rest, and the time until 
four, is your own. The evenings we shall spend to- 
gether until ten o’clock, when I retire for the night. 
Now be pleased to let me hear you play.” 

Has your Ladyship any particular choice ?” 

“ Play anything. At present I wish to hear your 
touch ; so much depends upon that.” 

Edith played several pieces; at first rather timidly, 
then, forgetting that she had a listener, with her 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


164 

usual skill and spirit. When she stopped, the 
Countess exclaimed, “This is delightful. Your touch 
is exquisite, firm and decided, yet, at the same time, 
soft and velvety. It is much like ” — then interrupt- 
ing herself, as if another thought had struck her 

“ Come, child, sit opposite me, and let me examine 
your features.” 

Edith did as she was ordered, yet secretly annoyed, 
thinking that this was not in the bargain. Her fea- 
tures therefore expressed, in a measure, the thoughts 
that were at work. Her mouth wore a stern ex- 
pression, and throwing her head back in haughty dis- 
pleasure, she looked her mistress straight in the eye. 

A faint shriek, as if in pain, escaped the Countess 
at this motion, and pressing her hand tightly to her 
breast, she scanned Edith’s features eagerly. At last, 
with a gentle sigh, she fell back into her seat, while 
hot tears fell from her eyes. 

Edith’s features softened immediately at the sight 
of the sad expression in her mistress’ countenance, 
and kneeling before her she took one slender hand in 
hers, stroking it gently, in silent sympathy. She 
kept on, smoothing the wasted fingers, until the tears 


AT HER NEW HOME. 


165 


stopped flowing, and her eyes looked down with a 
mournful smile upon the upturned face, so beautiful 
and tender. “You are in mourning, dear, have you 
lost some near relation ?” and she laid her disengaged 
hand softly upon her companion’s head. 

“ I have, your Ladyship,” and Edith’s eyes became 
dim with grief, and her lips trembled at the recollec- 
tion of her recent loss. 

“ Poor child. Was it your mother; or, perhaps, a 
father ?” 

“ Neither. I lost my grandmother, my only rela- 
tion,” and the fast-falling tears rolled slowly down 
her cheeks, and her bosom heaved with scarcely sup- 
pressed sobs. 

“ Then you have neither father nor mother,” the 
Countess inquired, pityingly. 

“No, your Ladyship. I never knew my mother, 
and scarcely remember my father.” 

“ Who were your parents, dear Edith ? — do not 
deem me impertinent,” she added, hastily, seeing 
her flush. “ My heart yearns for you, so lonely and 
so young as you are. I loved you when I read your 
name attached to the letter you sent me, and when I 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


1 66 

saw your face you grew still dearer to me, though 
sometimes it pains me to look at you.” 

My parents were peasants,” and her head rose 
proudly. ‘‘ Humble, yet honest peasants.” 

'' But how did you get such a superior education,” 
she wished to ask, but changed the subject abruptly, 
thinking that, as yet, she had no right to pry closer 
into her companion’s past life, and only said, ^Hhis 
will do, dear,” telling herself that, perhaps, later, if 
Edith became attached to her, she might inquire fur- 
ther, and be allowed to lighten the burden that now 
made her look so sad and downcast. 


CARNIVAL TIME. 


167 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

CARNIVAL TIME. 

Months passed on. In the meantime, the snow 
melted from the ground, the air grew balmier, green 
leaves peeped from the earth, and birds that had 
passed the cold season in milder climates came back 
to build their nests. The life that Edith led was very 
lonesome, yet suited to her present condition of 
mind. Letters from her friends in Freiburg told her 
that she was not forgotten, and long epistles, full of 
patient love, from Mr. Raymond, were as rays of 
light falling upon her path. Besides, the unwavering, 
nay, daily increasing kindness of the Countess to- 
wards herself, and the attentions she received from 
all in the house, made her abode pleasant, and 
chained her heart more and more to the lady who, 
with such gentleness, tried to win her affection. 

One thing, only, puzzled, and, in some measure, 
annoyed her. The Baron, when in her presence. 


SWEETHEART. 


1 68 

watched her unceasingly, yet furtively. Every move- 
ment, every look, every word she uttered, was 
noticed by him. But when, annoyed by this 
constant scrutiny, she turned her gaze full upon 
him, he instantly withdrew his eyes, moving uneasily 
in his seat, evidently uncomfortable. This strange 
behavior perplexed her greatly; still, as the Baron, 
except at meal times, rarely came in contact with l:jr, 
it did not seriously interrupt her comfort. 

Long walks in the forest with the Countess, a foot- 
man at some distance, commenced with the return of 
Spring. The Countess now seemed to be happy only 
when Edith was by her side, and had also grown 
more cheerful, with smiles less rare. So Edith 
thought, and was confirmed in her belief by Susanne, 
the housekeeper, a good-natured, talkative old body, 
who had known the Countess from a child. 

Her Ladyship,” she would say, “ has taken amaz- 
ingly to you. Miss Adlaw. I never have seen her so 
greatly attached to any of her companions before. 
Your comfort appears to be her first consideration. 
She has wonderfully improved in her spirits, too, 
since your coming. I can assure you. Miss, that 


CARNIVAL TIME. 


I 59 

weeks sometimes passed in which no one saw her 
smile. Now it is quite otherwise ; tears are rare, and 
smiles in plenty. Heaven be praised ! ” 

One rainy day Edith felt particularly down- 
hearted. She had had no letter from Mr. Raymond 
for a long time, and it made her heart very heavy. 
She was sitting opposite the Countess, employed 
with some fine needlework. The lady had observed 
her silently for some minutes, trying to discover her 
thoughts, for that another cause beside the loss of 
her grandmother depressed her companion’s spirits, 
she had long ago suspected. It is not natural, she 
argued within herself, that one so young should 
abandon herself to grief so unceasingly, and, there- 
fore, some other burden must trouble her mind. If I 
could win her confidence, and induce her to open her 
heart to me, perchance I might soothe, if not console- 
her.” 

At last a deep sigh parted Edith’s lips. 

“What makes you sad, my child?” asked the 
Countess. 

Edith blushed deeply. 

“ Will you not confide in me ? There is, beside 


I/O 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


your grief about your grandmother’s death, yet 
another cause that troubles you, and brings forth 
these sighs and tears. Do you not believe, my child, 
that I take a loving interest in all that concerns you?” 

“ I am aware of your considerate kindness to me, 
gracious Countess, yet why should I trouble your ear 
with my tale of sorrow, while your ladyship has so 
much of your own to grieve over ? It would be selfish, 
besides taking too much advantage of your forbear- 
ance.” 

Nay, nay, Edith ; have not I encouraged you to 
speak to me freely, as a daughter would speak to a 
mother ? You are young and inexperienced ; I have 
seen the world, and might, by my advice, perhaps, be 
able to help you.” 

“Dear Countess,” and the work fell from her 
hands, and tears gushed from her eyes ; “ no one can 
help me — no one,” she repeated, shaking her head 
mournfully. 

“ Will you not let me hear the reason why you 
think so?” And at last, with coaxing, and adroit 
questions, the Countess drew from Edith’s reluctant 
lips the story of her love. She was made acquainted 


CARNIVAL TIME. 


I7I 


with the noble deeds of the man who, setting aside 
the prejudices of society, acknowledged only the 
voice of his heart ; who, loving a girl far, far beneath 
him in station, raised her to his level, by cultivating 
her mind — took her to his heart, wishing to make 
her his wife, and who, even then, clung fondly and 
faithfully to her, when she told him that there were 
reasons which she could not confess that made their 
union impossible, and that, in future, they must be 
nothing more than friends. 

The Countess was deeply moved by such unselfisli 
constancy, and asked, “And those reasons, Edith, 
may I not hear them ?” 

“You must pardon me, my Lady; I did not even 
impart them to my grandmother. I have promised 
that, should they cease to exist, I would tell Mr. 
Raymond at once, and ask him to take me home as 
his wife. I doubt whether this will ever happen,” she 
added, despondingly. 

What could the kind Countess say but — “ Do not 
despair, my child. You are young, and many years 
are before you, in which everything may change, to 
your happiness.” 




172 


ms SWEETHEART. 


In May the Countess engaged a suite of rooms 
at a hotel in C., for a week, to give herself a 
change, she told her father, who listened with pleas- 
ure and surprise, believing that it indicated an entire 
revolution in his daughter’s feelings, leading, as he 
fondly hoped, to her ultimate recovery. 

But, although the Countess felt much better, and 
suffered a great deal less . from depression of spirits, 
since Edith was with her, this was not her reason for 
taking this journey, but the intention and the wish 
that her companion should be roused from her sad- 
ness, and that her monotonous life should, for a short 
time, become interrupted by the busy scenes of the 
city. 

Once in C., the Countess was almost con- 
stantly out with Edith, taking carriage drives through 
the environs, or visiting the most interesting parts of 
the city. The week passed rapidly, and Edith bene- 
fited greatly by the change. When they returned to 
the country every thing looked green and fresh, and 
the birds were singing gaily in the trees. The 
Summer went pleasantly by, and when the first part 
of Winter had also gone, the Countess again proposed 


CARNIVAL TIME. 


173 


a week in the city, to let Edith see the joys and 
pleasures of a Catholic Carnival. “ It is Carnival 
time, my dear,” she said, “ and the excitement which 
attends the occasion will amuse you.” 

Consequently another visit was paid to C. The 
Countess procured several masquerade costumes, 
without her companion’s knowledge, and one even- 
ing, when they stood together at the window, observ- 
ing the crowd of many-colored masks in the shim- 
mering gaslight in the street below, watching the 
different dominoes as they flitted hither and thither, 
following here a gallant knight in shining armor and 
feathered helmet, talking there to a pretty flower girl 
of the sunny south — one chasing a coquetish Span- 
ish Donna down the street, another mysteriously 
offering his services as fortune-teller to a stately wan- 
dering German Burg-Fraiilein — the Countess, see- 
ing by her companion’s expression of face, how 
greatly she was interested in the gay play beneath 
them, proposed that she also should step down and 
join in the general enjoyment. 

“You forget, gracious Countess,” replied Edith, 
“that I have no companion.” 


1/4 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


“ One sees, my dear,” answered the lady, laugh- 
ingly, “ that you have been brought up in a Protest- 
ant country, and are, therefore, unacquainted with the 
liberties we enjoy at Carnival time. Your mask will 
be your protector, my dear. You will be timid only 
for the first few minutes ; once among this gay crowd 
all restraint wears ofif, and with almost intoxicated 
senses you give yourself up to the freedom a mask 
may enjoy. Here, try to drink from the cup friend 
Carnival holds to your lips, and let me watch you, as 
you charm some gay gallant in your costume of a 
pretty Swiss peasant girl.” 

With these words she drew from a wardrobe a 
superb masquerade dress of a peasant girl of the 
snowy mountains. 

With wondering eyes Edith looked upon the 
charming dress, still declining to accept her mistress’ 
seductive offer. 

“ What, still undecided ?” smiled the latter. ” Let 
me put your scruples aside by telling you a little 
anecdote, after which you, perhaps, will not think it 
unbecoming in a lady thus to enjoy herself” 

“You misconstrue my hesitation, my Lady. How 


CARNIVAL TIME. 


175 


could I consider any thing unbecoming in which you 
encourage me. No, it is fear; I am afraid to venture 
alone among the strange crowd below.” 

‘‘ It will wear off in a few minutes, and having once 
tasted of this pleasure, I am convinced that you will 
wish to go again. However, to set your mind at rest, 
let me relate to you my anecdote. It is true. I 
heard it from my husband’s own lips. Duke Os- 
wald’s son’s tutor had a friend, a young clergyman, 
who, while the Duke resided at his country seat at 
A., was frequently invited by his Highness to dinner; 
he had also received an invitation from the latter to 
come and spend a few days at his town residence 
during the Carnival. The clergyman gladly accepted 
it, and when the time came proceeded thither. Now, 
he was a Protestant, and never had witnessed a Catho- 
lic Carnival. The tutor had been, on one occasion, 
introduced to our Grand Duchess by his employer, 
and, some way or other, her Highness had either 
heard from Duke Oswald of his friend, the clergy- 
man, or had noticed him herself, for he was, so I 
heard, a very handsome man. However, one even- 
ing, when the two friends sat cosily in a private room 


1-6 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


at a hotel, talking, over their wine, of old times and 
by-gone days, the door opened, and in stepped a 
graceful shepherd girl, with beautiful golden hair, her 
hat coquetishly set upon one side of her head. 
Touching the clergyman playfully with her crook, 
upon the arm, she said, ' It would become thee better. 
Shepherd, to mind thy flock, than to spend thy time 
here in the gay Carnival time.’ 

“Nothing daunted, the clergyman answered, letting 
his astonished eyes rest admiringly upon the graceful 
form before him, ‘ if thou, fair Shepherdess, wilt bear 
me companionship, let us depart at once,’ and getting 
up, to offer his arm to the mask, advanced towards 
her; but striking an airy pirouette, she gave a silvery 
laugh and vanished quickly. ‘This must be a dame 
of station, judging from her easy movements and 
well-modulated voice !’ said the clergyman. 

“ ‘You may well think so,’ replied his friend, who 
had recognized the mask the minute she had entered, 

‘ and some one to whom you would not have spoken 
as you did, if you had known as much as I, for it was 
our Grand Duchess.’ After this the clergyman or- 
dered an extra bottle of wine, ‘ to drink the health of 


CARNIVAL TIME. 


177 


the noble Shepherdess/ he said — ‘ in order to drown 
his consternation,’ his friend declared, when relating 
the story to Duke Oswald. 

Now, my dear, have you decided?” the Countess 
asked, holding the dress temptingly before Edith’s 
sight. 

” I will try.” 

Soon afterwards the Countess saw her walk timidly 
on the other side of the street, looking carefully 
about her, and avoiding, as much as possible, the 
crowds which were gathered all around ; but some- 
time afterward she disappeared, chasing a black 
domino around the corner. 

“ It will do her good,” murmured her mistress, to 
herself, and left the window, sighing deeply, remem- 
bering the time when she, too, had thus enjoyed her- 
self 

Several hours later Edith came back, gay and 
merry, stating that she had enjoyed herself greatly, 
and giving a minute description of all that had hap- 
pened, while her mistress listened with pleased inter- 
est. 

''But you do not wish to go to-morrow evening 


1/8 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


again, Kdith; you are too much afraid to go among 
the crowd. Is it not so?” 

A bright smile was the only answer to the Count 
ess’ pleasantry. 

She did go, again and again, until only one more 
evening was left before their return to “ Einsiedel.” 

It was their last evening in town. Edith was ready 
to go upon her expedition, as she called it, in the 
personification of Summer— a white, short dress, of 
some fleecy stuff, looped up with bunches of ears of 
wheat and field flowers ; wreaths of roses around her 
head, neck and arms ; a sickle in one hand, and in the 
other a rake, negligently thrown over her shoulder. 

She had scarcely been two minutes in the street 
when a mask, in the costume of a Polish Grandee, 
came near her, trying to pull a flower from one of 
her wreaths. 

“ Shame on thee ! ” cried Edith, turning quickly, 
and catching him in the act. “Trying to get by 
stealth what a gentleman might get easily by 
gallantry. Do not the nobles of thy country know 
better.” 

“ Fair Season of the Roses, forgive my treason, and 


CARNIVAL TIME. 


179 


grant thy servant one flower from thy wreaths and 
one glance from thy bright eyes.” 

“ To punish thee, I say, get both, if thou art able,” 
and, like a flash, she mingled with the multitude. A 
look back showed her, however, that the mask was 
on her track. She twined herself in and out between 
others, to escape his observation — hid between these 
and stooped behind those, but of no avail ; her pur- 
suer still followed her. At last she darted sideways, 
toward the door of a hotel, and looking once back, 
saw him stand still, undecided, looking up and down 
the street. He evidently had lost sight of her. 
Entering quickly, she hurried up stairs, pushed open 
a door that stood ajar, and found herself in a large 
room, dimly lighted. Tired, and out of breath with 
the chase, she threw herself upon a sofa, in the 
furthest corner of the room, to rest. 

How long she had been lying thus she could not 
have said, when the door was thrown open, and a 
voice that made her start said, “ Here, dearest, enter 
here until I have rung for a servant. Are you tired, 
darling ?” 

“ Very. How could I be otherwise ?” answered a 


150 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


fretful voice. Hu ! how chilly it is here. Hurry, 
Maurice, I am shivering.” 

‘‘ Sit down, dearest, and make yourself comfortable 
until I return.” 

Edith had raised herself cautiously, to see the face 
of the gentleman, and quickly let herself down again, 
for it was, indeed, Maurice Raymond. Here was a 
dilemma. What should she do ? They might depart, 
she hoped, and then she could leave the room unper- 
ceived. If they raised the light, of course they would 
discover her, but her mask would be her protection. 
At all events, she must not lose her presence of mind. 
Her heart beat almost audibly. Who was this woman 
with whom he was traveling ? for that she had on a 
traveling suit she had time to notice by the quick 
glance she had thrown at them. 

Presently he came back. ‘‘ I have engaged rooms 
for the night, my dear wife ; let us go to them.” 

“ How long shall we remain here, Maurice ?” asked 
the lady, almost crossly. 

As long as you like, love, only remember that in 
two weeks we must be at home, for my father wishes 
to take a journey to C., in whose neighborhood, as he 


CARNIVAL TIME. 1-3 I 

says, lie wishes to visit a dear friend of his.” With 
these words he led his wife from the room. 

As soon as the door had closed upon them, Edith 
sat up, tore off her mask, and fanned herself violently. 
What had she heard ! His wife ? and she felt like 
crying out, with joy. Then one reason, and she 
knew now that this had been her chief reason, 
was removed. Now Maurice Raymond, for his own 
peace’ sake, dared not show that he had known 
her before, for, if she judged his wife’s voice rightly, 
she would be a very exacting and jealous com- 
panion. What need she care, now, whether he 
knew her to be lowly born, since he could not taunt 
his father with her lowly ancestors ? Hitherto she 
had thought her low birth to be her chief reason for 
thinking their union an impossibility, but now it 
became clear to her that it had been his jealousy of 
which she was mo.st afraid. What if her pride 
smarted and hurt? It had to succumb to her 
love, which was all powerful. She was free ! free ! 
she said to herself, exultingly, and at liberty to call 
her lover to her side, to part no more. Yet, some- 
thing else Maurice Raymond had said before leaving 
i6 


IS3 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


the room : “ His father intended to visit a dear friend 
near C. It might be herself," she whispered in her 
heart, while her bosom heaved with joyful excitement. 
“ It must be myself; ” and tears started to her eyes at 
the thought that she soon would see him again ; that 
he would come to her. What delicious happiness 
had the Carnival brought to her ; what unspeakable 
joy. How bright the future now looked, and how 
beautiful the world seemed once more. 

With beaming eyes and burning brow, she arrived 
at home, pouring into her kind mistress’ ears the 
joyful tale that the chief reason ceased to exist ; that 
with its disappearance the other was null and void ; 
and that, in consequence of this discovery, she could 
hurry to him who had loved her so faithfully, and 
tell him she would be his at last. Then the Countess 
knew that out of her young companion’s joy would 
again come sadness and desolation for herself, and 
what would be Edith’s gain would prove her own 
loss. Therefore, while she rejoiced at the good 
tidings, she yet could not help bewailing in her 
heart her own misfortune. 


PATIENCE REWARDED. 


183 


CHAPTER XIX. 

PATIENCE REWARDED 

In the meanwhile, a great event had taken place in 
Mr. Raymond’s family. After several months of hard 
strife with his heart, Maurice Raymond, aided by 
absence and time, had succumbed to reason, and 
allowed himself to believe that those weeks at Frei- 
burg must remain to him as a beautiful dream, and, 
although the awakening might not be entirely to his 
taste, he had to remember what was expected of him, 
and act accordingly. A few months later he began 
to applaud himself for having chosen reality instead 
of romance, for he had succeeded in securing th,, 
hand of Ida Hall, only daughter of the old and 
wealthy ex-Prime Minister, von Hall, who, having got 
gray in the service of his king, had lately sent in his 
resignation, and with honors, and the gracious per- 
mission of his sovereign to put a “ von ” to his name 
(which indicates nobility in Germany), retired from 


184 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


service, with his pockets well lined, and the pleasing 
consciousness that his resignation was regretted at 
Court. His only child had reached the time of life 
when ladies such as she, with not much thought 
beyond fashion, money and station, feel flattered 
at being called young. Being one evening invited 
to a large private ball, she met Maurice Raymond, 
who had come to the Capital to spend a week. 
They were introduced to each other, and a mutual 
liking followed. The lady, remembering her age, 
viewed him with favor, and the gentleman, having 
heard of her father’s well-filled coffers, and knowing 
the high station she sprang from, considered her 
worthy of his special attention. They met, again and 
again. At last, grown .bold, Maurice asked the all- 
important question. She referred. him, blushingly, to 
her father, and did not withdraw her hand as he 
gratefully pressed it. A week afterward, when every 
thing was satisfactorily arranged, the engagement was 
publicly announced. Friends and relations came to 
congratulate Maurice upon his engagement, and 
when he heard, now and then, the remarks, seem- 
ingly envious, that were made upon the matter; 


PATIENCE REWARDED. 


when, above all, he noticed the gratified looks of 
his own family, and listened as his sister and 
sister-in-law explained, minutely, who the young 
lady was, laying particular stress upon ‘‘the Prime 
Minister von Hall’s daughter,” then, more than ever, 
he congratulated himself upon the wisdom of 
his course and the satisfaction it afforded to his 
family. 

Time wore on, and the wedding took place. A 
grand and splendid spectacle ; for was not the bride 
the only child of hcVy and the bridegroom the favored 
son and brother of his family? Four weeks the 
newly-wedded couple intended to be absent on their 
wedding tour, and, after their return, Mr. Raymond 
wished to take a journey — a pleasure trip, to see a 
friend, he said to them — to see his “ Sweetheart,” he 
said to himself. His heart had doubly yearned for her, 
in all the bustle and excitement which this wedding 
had brought with it, and often he had asked himself, 
whether the time would not soon come when he, too, 
might bring home his darling, not rich and high- 
born, as his son’s wife was, yet superior to her in 
everything else. 
i6* 




HIS SWEETHEART. 


1 86 

Edith had spent two wretched weeks of expecta- 
tion,' since her return to Einsiedel. ''Would he 
come, or was it some other friend he meant to visit ?” 
she asked herself, more than a hundred times in the 
day. Doubt and hope, fear and joy, varied in her 
breast. 

The third week was nearly over, and hope began 
to die in her heart, making room for sadness and 
bitter disappointment. No letter — no sign from him. 
"What did it mean? Had he become tired of waiting, 
and’' — a flood of tears finished the sentence. Just 
then, some one knocked at her door. It was a ser- 
vant, handing her a card, and saying, " the gentleman 
is waiting below.” She did not look at the card in 
the presence of the servant, fearing to betray herself, 
but only said, " say that I shall be down directly.” 
But when he had gone, and she was alone, she held 
it to her eyes and read, "Maurice Raymond!” A cry 
of joy — away she flew, and in a few minutes was 
pressed to his loving heart. 

" My ' little one my own dear ' Sweetheart,’ ” and 
his eyes grew moist, as he noticed how pale and thin 
she had grown. "Are they kind to you, dearest?” 


PATIENCE REWARDED. 


187 


They could not be more so, Sir,’’ she answered, 
her looks hanging on his in rapturous joy. No 
sister, no mother, could be more thoughtful of my 
comfort than the Countess is.” 

Then you would not care to leave them ?” he 
questioned, rather jealously. 

That depends,” she answered, smiling archly, 
‘^with 7vhoin I should leave, and where I had to go. 

Would you go with me, darling, and to my 
home?” he asked, doubtingly, although his pulse 
throbbed wildly, and his heart beat almost audibly 

‘^Why not. Sir, if you would take me?” and she 
laid her head softly upon his breast. 

He raised it quickly, and holding her from him, so 
as to have a full view of her face, said, solemnly, 
Edith, do you mean it?” and the convulsive work- 
ing of his features showed her how deeply he felt. 
Do not mock me !” he cried, almost threateningly. 

‘Ham weary without you. Sir,” she whispered, 
folding her arms around his neck. Will you take 
me with you ?” 

Fervently, he said, “ Bless you for these words, 
darling, bless you;” and drawing her still nearer to 


i88 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


his breast, he imprinted passionate kisses upon her 
brow and lips. '' And your reasons, Edith,” he 
asked, after a while, Are they gone ?” 

The chief one has disappeared, and the other will 
not hold good now, since the first has gone, and my 
heart asks for its right.” 

^^You promised me, darling, that if once you 
should consider yourself free to give yourself to me, 
you would not keep me waiting, but soon become 
my wife. Dearest, when shall it be ?” 

Let us speak of that the next time we meet. Sir.” 

‘‘And then, we meet to part no more, ‘little one.’ 
Will not your birthday be soon ?” 

“ The first week in May.” 

“ Then let that day be our wedding-day. Will you 
not recompense me for waiting so long?” 

“ If you wish it, be it so.” 

“ I shall inform my family of my coming happiness, 
as soon as I return home, and then attend to every- 
thing else. We had a wedding in our family lately. 
My son, Maurice, married, some weeks ago.” 

“Your second son. Sir?” she asked, feeling almost 
like a hypocrite. 


PATIENCE REWARDED. 


189 


‘‘Yes; my second son. He has done very well,” 
he added, proudly. 

A servant now entered, bearing upon a silver 
waiter a note. “For you, Sir,” he said, bowing res- 
pectfully. “ From her ladyship, the Countess.” 

Mr. Raymond read: “Honored Sir — I shall be 
pleased to have your company at dinner, an hour 
hence.” He handed it to Edith, and said to the ser- 
vant, “tell her ladyship, that I do myself the pleasure 
of accepting her invitation.” 

“ Shall I show you to your room. Sir?” 

“ If you please.” And pressing Edith’s hand 
warmly, he followed the servant. 

The dinner passed off very pleasantly. The 
Countess warmly expressed the pleasure she felt in 
becoming acquainted with Edith’s noble friend. 
“ Now,” she said, laying her hand affectionately 
upon her companion’s arm, “ I suppose you wish to 
rob me of my treasure.” 

“ This, indeed, gracious Countess, is my most ar- 
dent wish. We have been engaged such a long 
time,” he added, smilingly. 


T90 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


‘‘ I know it, and also how patiently you have 
waited. Must I lose her soon ?” 

Nothing positively is fixed, as yet. Still we have 
so far agreed, that her next birthday, the first week 
in May, should also be our wedding-day.” 

The Countess sighed deeply, and said, as Edith 
has no home, I wish her marriage to take place 
here.” 

Gracious Countess,” cried Edith, deeply moved, 
you overwhelm me with kindness.” 

‘‘There is nothing I should think too much for 
you, my dear.” Then, with tears in her eyes, she 
said to Mr. Raymond, “ I shall miss her sadly.” 


A THUNDERBOLT. 


I9I 


CHAPTER XX. 

A THUNDERBOLT. 

The second evening after his return from Einsie- 
del, Mr. Raymond was sitting at home, in the midst 
of his family. Maud, with her husband, had come, 
on purpose to welcome her father. William, his 
eldest son, with Amanda, and Maurice, with his wife, 
were also present. The children had been sent to 
bed. 

“You seem thoughtful this evening. Father, and 
not much in the hum*or to talk !” said Maud. 

“ I was only waiting for a pause, my Daughter. 
\ ou have kept up, until now, such a lively conversa- 
tion, that I could only listen. Now, however, since I 
have the word, I shall impart some important news 
to you. I shall be married the first week in May.” 

If a thunderbolt had fallen among them, the effect 
could not have been more striking, and the expres- 
sion of the different faces would have been worthy of 


1^2 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


a painters pencil. William’s expressed astonish- 
ment mingled with a great deal of secret enjoyment. 
Ilis wife looked like an insulted queen. In Mr. Hol- 
borne’s countenance one could read simply curiosity 
to know who the lady was ; but that of Maud, his 
wife, spoke the indignation she felt. Maurice looked 
in speechless wonder at his father, while Ida twirled 
her golden glasses in haughty indifference. 

Seeing that no one spoke, Mr. Raymond con- 
tinued, calmly, while a faint smile played around his 
lips : I have to thank you much, Amanda, for the 
unceasing care and attention you have bestowed upon 
me and my family, and I only thought it right that 
you should be relieved of it, at last.” 

“ I never thought it a burden, nor have l ever com- 
plained,” said the complimented lady, in an aggrieved 
tone. 

‘‘ I am also aware of that, my dear, and my grati- 
tude is so much deeper.” 

‘^Well, Father,” said William, “here is my hand, 
and my best wishes ; certainly / should not have 
waited so long. A household without a wife is a 
sad affair.” 


A THUNDERBOLT. 


193 


‘‘ Brute !’•’ muttered Amanda. 

“Never mind, dear. You are too strong and 
healthy to give me a chance,’’ said her husband, 
soothingly. “ Were you old, or in feeble health, I 
should not have made this remark ; as it is, it cannot 
concern you.” 

Somewhat mollified, by being called yotmg, 
Amanda smoothed down her rufifled plumage, and 
let it pass. 

“ I hope you may be happy. Father,” said Maurice, 
warmly ; and Ida also gave the tips of her fingers. 

Maud would not speak, but sat in dignified silence. 
Then her husband got up, and begged Mr. Raymond 
to accept his and his wife’s best wishes. 

“ Thank you, my children. I knew that you 
would look at the matter in the right light.” 

At these words William felt like roaring out aloud, 
but restrained his visible inclination, pulling his 
moustache vigorously, instead. A silence fell upon 
the circle, all waiting for more news ; for some more 
exact information. But as Mr. Raymond seemed not 
inclined to satisfy their curiosity, but sat meditatively 

17 


194 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


watching the smoke of his cigar, Amanda broke the 
silence by inquiring: And the lady — is she rich?” 

Poor!” answered her father-in-law, at once. 

A visible expression of contempt passed over the 
inquirer’s features. 

'' Of good family I suppose ?” Maud, at last, 
deigned to ask. 

An almost imperceptible flush dyed the features 
of him who was thus questioned, but he replied, dis- 
tinctly, '' She is not well-born.” 

With the expression of a martyr, his daughter fell 
back into her seat, while Ida, with a sarcastic laugh, 
said, “ A pauper ! How romantic.” 

There was a dangerous flash in his eyes as Mr. 
Raymond said, Let me remind you, Madam, that 
you speak of my future wife, and — the mistress of 
this house.” And he emphasized the latter words. 

Is she accomplished. Father ?” Maurice inquired. 

“Highly so, my son;” and the questioner sup- 
pressed a sigh. 

“ Handsome ?” he inquired further, not noticing 
his wife’s angry look. 

“ You may judge for yourself ; here is her picture.” 


A THUNDERBOLT. 


195 


And taking a case from his pocket, he handed it to 
William, who sat next him. 

Here is magnificent beauty,” he exclaimed. 

There is not a lovelier girl in the country.” 

Husband ! ” sounded his better half’s voice, 
reprovingly. 

My dear, I said 'girl,’” and thus he gallantly 
pacified her. " Here, have a look at it.” 

Rather proud-looking,” Amanda remarked, hand- 
ing it to Maud. 

She looked long and earnestly at it, but gave it to 
her husband without saying a word. 

You have shown great taste in your choice. Sir,” 
was Mr. Holborn’s comment. 

Really well-looking. How singular ! ” Ida said, 
superciliously, placing the picture in her husband’s 
hand. 

Maurice gave one look, and then let it drop upon 
the floor, with an effort suppressing a groan. 

How awkward ! ” exclaimed his wife. 

^'Take care!” cried his father, picking it up 
quickly, and examining it closely. 


196 HIS SWEETHEART. 

“ I hope it is not damaged, Sir,” said Maurice, pale 
as death, and hardly able to hide his emotion. 

‘‘ Fortunately not,” Mr. Raymond replied, putting 
it carefully back into his pocket. “ Her name is 
Adlaw,” he continued — “ Edith A.dlaw, and she is, at 
present, companion to the Countess von Metland.” 

How fortunate for the children,” broke in Maud, 
the tone of her voice revealing the feeling she could 
no longer conceal ; she can instruct them.” 

“ I have thought of them, too,” said her father, 
calmly. ‘‘ I have selected a fitting school for them 
in L., for Eliza as well as the boys. I shall take 
them there myself to-morrow. I do not wish to have 
their ears poisoned and their young hearts set against 
my future wife. And, mark me, ladies ” — and he 
looked severely at them — if I hear of one word said 
against her to the little ones, I will certainly resent 
the indignity thus offered to me. You must know 
that I am master in my house. Now, good night. 
I may add, here, that the wedding is to take place at 
the; residence of the Countess. It was her ladyship’s 
particular request, but, nevertheless, I shall have our 
marriage celebrated in this house, also, and mean 


A THUNDERBOLT. 


197 


that it shall be a splendid affair.” Thus speaking, he 
left them to their own thoughts. 

“ I advise you, ladies,” said William, after the door 
had closed, to mind what our faither has said. Some 
of you have already behaved very foolishly. I beg 
your pardon, Ida, for speaking so plainly, but you do 
not yet know my father. How you, Maud, could 
have behaved in such an absurd way, is more than I 
can tell. Of course, my father could not expect that 
you would take it coolly, but it was not necessary 
that you should have shown your resentment so very 
plainly, especially as there was nothing to be gained 
by it. For my part, I do not care much, and I repeat 
again, I wonder my father waited so long. As for 
the children, it would be wisest not to interfere at all. 
You would only make them unhappy, whereas, if you 
leave them alone, all may turn out well.” 

The whole thing is shocking,” burst out Maud ; 
and you are won over by that pretty face of hers.” 

'‘You speak nonsense. Sister; our father is en- 
titled to respectful consideration from his children. 
Let us go, Amanda ; we two, at least, will try to live 
in peace with our future mother,” 


198 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


Heartless ! ” muttered Maud, to herself. 

Maurice, after his wife had retired, and the others 
had also gone, remained behind, alone. Unpleasant 
reflections forced themselves upon him, making him 
uncomfortable. ‘‘How will she receive me,” he 
mused. “ As a stranger, or as an old friend ? Will 
gratitude that I once saved her from danger over- 
come the contempt she must feel for me ?” And he 
wiped from his brow the large drops which this 
last thought had brought there. “ I must leave it to 
her, and wait patiently. From her demeanor I shall 
have to take the cue how to deport myself toward her. 
Idiot that I was, to throw away the substance so near 
my reach, to grasp the shadow, and not to have 
known that wealth and titles are poor substitutes for 
a heart and intellect.” With this consoling conclu- 
sion he left the room, and proceeded to his own 
apartment. 


SAD RECOLLECTIONS. 


199 


CHAPTER XXI. 

SAD RECOLLECTIONS. 

The Countess von Metland had derived much 
pleasure from Mr. Raymond’s visit. She was charmed 
by the elegance of his manners and highly entertained 
by the easy flow of his conversation. Joyfully she 
congratulated her favorite and dear child, as in fond 
affection she was wont to call Edith, on her good 
choice. ‘‘ To show your betrothed how much I think 
of you, my dear,” she said, a short time after his 
departure, I mean, also, to ask his children to your 
wedding. It will gratify him, and show them, at 
the same time, that you, my child, are not without a 
friend.” 

“ How can I ever repay your great goodness to me, 
gracious Countess ?” And tears of gratitude filled 
Edith’s eyes. 

‘‘ By often thinking of me,” she replied, stroking 


200 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


her companion’s hair fondly, ‘‘ and by loving me 
always, Edith.” Her voice trembled with sadness. 
“ I never told you why my heart yearned for you 
from the first time I saw you. You remind me of 
one who was unspeakably dear to me, in features as 
well as in motions, though more in the latter ; and 
your name is that of my little darling, whom I lost 
when she was only three years old.” Tears inter- 
rupted her narrative. 

“ When my dear husband died,” she proceeded, 
after a long pause, ” I was nearly beside myself with 
grief My father resolved to travel with me, to divert 
my thoughts from sorrow. He, with myself and my 
little Edith, and a couple of servants, one of whom 
was old Friederich, who, as you know, is still with us, 
consequently, left our estate. We had reached L., 
and determined to stay there a few days. The second 
day Edith’s nurse had driven out with the child. A 
fire broke out in the city ; a storm arose, and the 
flames leaped from house to house, from street to 
street, and soon a large part of L. was on fire. The 
uproar and tumult were fearful ; the cries of the 
people and the ringing of the bells brought terror to 


SAD RECOLLECTIONS. 


201 


my heart, for the carriage had not yet returned. The 
panic increased and grew general ; here children 
cried for their mothers ; there mothers, seeking their 
offspring were wringing their hands in despair. 
The sky grew dark, from the rising smoke, and every- 
where were heard the creaking and thunder of falling 
houses. My agony increased with every moment. 
Servants were sent out in every direction to find 
them, but to no purpose. Night drew near, when my 
father, with Friederich, entered my chamber. My 
child ! ” I cried, My child ! For mercy’s sake keep 
me not in suspense ! ” But no answer came. In 
their looks and downcast eyes, however, I read the 
worst, and I could bear no more. Husband and 
child — it was too much. I became unconscious. An 
illness followed — dangerous, so they told me after- 
ward — and when I recovered my heart had died 
within me. I felt desolate, and desired to live alone 
with my grief I retired with my father to Einsiedel. 
The nurse, I was later told by my father, was found 
dead in the street, her skull crushed, and my child 
beside her, also dead. Not far off, broken to pieces, 
lay the carriage. The horses, frightened and mad- 


202 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


dened by the deafening noise, had dashed from street 
to street, until they were caught and brought home. 
The picture of my little darling will be ever impressed 
on my mind, as I saw her, for the last time, standing 
up in the carriage in her light blue silk dress, cut low 
in the neck, around which, attached to a delicate 
Venetian chain, she wore a medallion, with her father’s 
likeness, set in rubies, on one side, with his arms and 
initials, H. v. M., in diamonds, on the other. Well I 
remember how the jewels sparkled and shone in the 
sunl.ght, and how her dark, wavy hair danced, lifted 
by the gentle breeze that stirred the air, as she looked 
up and throw me, smilingly, a kiss — alas, a parting 
kiss !” A flood of tears and sobs, that shook her 
delicate frame, interrupted this painful narrative. 

“ Dear Countess, why call back all these sad 
memories of the past ? Why wilfully torture yourself 
by those pictures which have so saddened your life? 
Why will you not remember, instead, that those dear 
ones you have lost here are only waiting your coming 
there ? Why entertain thoughts that distress you and 
make life a burden to- you, when, if you would look 
into the future, and believe that your beloved ones 


SAD RECOLLECTIONS. 


203 


are not lost to you, you might call back to your heart 
peace and rest to brighten the remainder of your 
life ?” 

'' Yoit have done much, Edith, to make life less 
burdensome, but now you leave me, also. My child 
would now be as old as you. Her birthday was in 
July, while yours is in May — the sixth of May,” she 
added, shudderingly, the day of that dreadful fire ! 
This year, however, I will endeavor to keep back 
these thoughts of sadness, for it will be the day that 
brings happiness to you. Let us not indulge in sad- 
ness any longer,” she said, assuming, with an effort, a 
livelier tone. I shall now set my purpose in action, 
and write to Mr. Raymond at once.” 

Mr. Raymond was again among his children, 
and, drawing a letter from his pocket, he said, 
have received this letter from the Countess von Met- 
land. It contains an invitation for you all to my 
wedding : thinking, as her ladyship kindly says, to 
gratify me, and, at the same time, desiring to show 
my children that my future wife has, at least, one 
friend who interests herself in her behalf Should 


204 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


you wish to accept this very gracious invitation, the 
best thing would be to engage rooms in a hotel at C. 
for that time, for, although the Countess is so con- 
siderate as to express a wish that you all should be 
her guests, as her residence is large enough to hold a 
multitude of people, I think it more proper that we 
should not take so much advantage of her ladyship’s 
kindness, but provide our own quarters.” 

I believe that you are right. Father,” said Wil- 
liam. '' And what do you say, ladies, to the invita- 
tion ? Will you accept it or not ?” 

If it had been a wedding after the usual fashion, all, 
except, perhaps, William and Mr. Holborn, would 
have willingly declined the honor of being present, 
but now the ceremony would wear altogether a dif- 
ferent look. Therefore, however distasteful this mar- 
riage might be, at least to the ladies, it now 
had assumed a dazzling aspect; for, would not a 
real Countess preside over all, and would not her 
noble presence add lustre to the brilliance of the 
scene? Would this not give such a grand and 
beautiful coloring to the affair that the world could 
not help thinking that the family of Raymond had 


SAD RECOLLECTIONS. 


205 


been favored with particular grace? They at once 
decided to accept her ladyship’s invitation. Cf 
course, they had made up their minds to slight their 
father’s future wife — at least, as much as was advisable. 
Maud had said to her husband that she would simply 
ignore her, and Maurice’s wife felt so little interest in 
the intruder, as she called Edith, that she resolved to 
treat her with cool indifference. But Amanda, after 
having conferred with her husband about the matter, 
had resolved to patronize her, and assist her with 
her advice, as the poor girl, as was only natural to 
suppose, would know nothing whatever of house- 
hold matters.” For the present, however, all were to 
keep quiet, and make preparations for the wedding. 


2o6 


ms SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE SIXTH OF MAY. 

The sixth of May — Edith’s birthday, wedding day, 
and the day on which she came of age. Her wedding 
day! A throb of joy shot through her heart as she 
thought how much it brought to her. He whom her 
heart adored would be her own forever; no more 
parting between them in this world, but constant 
union. Oh, the feeling of happiness that thrilled 
through her soul as these thoughts presented them- 
selves. A few short hours, and he would be with her, 
bringing his children with him — the older ones only, 
for to take the little ones from the school in which 
they had only recently been placed, he thought 
would be unwise. This meeting with his family 
Edith dreaded, and her heart shrunk from the cold 
looks she instinctively felt she would receive from 
them. Her pride rose rebelliously, as she pictured to 
herself the scene, when her beloved had told them of 


THE SIXTH OF MAY. 


207 


his approaching marriage, and had replied to their in- 
quiries. That he was too proud to evade their ques- 
tions about her parentage, she well knew, and that 
close inquiries would be made upon that point, she 
was equally convinced. He would not mention from 
what a low station he had raised her, but would not 
this very omission suggest the worst to them? 
Strong, indeed, must be her love, to enable her to 
crush the proud swelling of her heart, as she dwelt 
upon these humiliating facts. 

The day of her coming of age ! Gradually her 
eyes moistene^d, as the picture of her departed 
grandmother rose before her; as she remembered 
her loving, constant care, and almost unconsciously 
she drew nearer to her the parcel that she had 
received from the hand of the dying woman, and 
which she had taken out of its resting-place only an 
hour ago. With falling tears she untied its covering, 
and with trembling lips impressed a kiss upon the 
letter that fell from it upon the table. “ To my be- 
loved Edith,” she read, in the old-fashioned hand- 
writing of her grandmother. Reverently she laid it 
by, proceeding to examine the contents of the parcel. 


2o8 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


First, she shook out a child’s short dress, of blue silk, 
its low-cut neck and sleeves trimmed with costly lace, 
whose threads were yellow as gold, with age. Won- 
deringly she laid it by, to take up a belt richly em- 
broidered with silver. A pair of tiny boots of blue 
satin, with silver buttons on their sides, next ap- 
peared. Tenderly she lifted them, admiring the 
miniature silver buckles that ornamented their instep, 
when some hard object, concealed in their depths, fell 
to the ground. She picked it up, and untied its 
wrappings. A medallion fell into her lap. There it 
sparkled and shone in its bright beauty, showing to 
her wondering eyes the initials of H. v. M,” in dia- 
monds, upon its golden surface. Curiously she 
looked at its other side, when, as if she had touched 
a living coal, she dropped it, with a cry of consterna- 
tion ; for there, plainly present to her sight, was the 
likeness of a dark, handsome man, set in rubies, 
which threw forth their fire in dazzling rays. Like 
one in a dream she looked around her, pressing her 
hand tightly to her brow, her breath suspended, and 
the blood tumultuously rushing to her head. 

“The dress of blue silk!” she murmured to herself 


THE SIXTH OF MAY. 


209 


while an expression of mingled fear and wonder came 
into her face. Her father’s likeness, set in rubies !” 
she continued, still bewildered. ''Those initials, in 
diamonds, and his crest! What is this!” she ex- 
claimed, starting to her feet, and pacing the room in 
great agitation. " What thoughts are these that fill 
my mind ! I am not dreaming, and it is day — broad 
daylight ; why does the sight of these articles 
make my blood course through my veins and my 
heart wildly leap and beat? What mad illusion of 
my brain ! I am not well ; the joy and happiness 
this day brings to me have intoxicated my senses ! 
Enough of this — let me return to reality !” And 
drinking a glass of water hastily, she sat herself down 
again. "This letter will explain all, and do away 
with suspense.” She tore open the paper. 

" My beloved child,” it commenced, " more than 
seventeen years ago there was a terrible fire in L. 
A violent storm broke out, and in spite of all that 
human help could do, the flames destroyed street 
after street. The city was a flood of living fire. At 
that time, my son, with his young wife and myself, 
did not live in our present abode, but a few miles 
18* 


210 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


further from the city,- on a farm that belonged to me ; 
but even at that distance we could see the smoke and 
the sparks that rose to the sky. Toward evening, as 
the bells did not cease to ring, and the leaping flames 
illumined the growing darkness, showing that the 
furious element was still pursuing its destroying 
course, my son determined to proceed to the scene of 
destruction, to give aid, if need be, or, at least, to 
witness, the fearful spectacle. It had grown late in 
the night, and we began to fear that some misfortune 
might have happened to him, when, to our relief, we 
heard his footsteps upon the gravel road. He en- 
tered the room, bearing in his arms a bundle. Si- 
lently he laid his burden upon the table, and pre- 
sented to our astonished eyes a sleeping child, of 
about three years of age. The light disturbed it in 
its slumber, and it opened its eyes — large, dark, 
wondering eyes, which filled with tears as soon as 
they became conscious of its strange surroundings. 
It took a long time to soothe her grief — for it was a 
gii-1 — and her constant calls for her mamma, until, at 
last, sleep again calmed her trembling lips, and shut 
those mournful eyes. She was clothed in the articles 


THE SIXTH OF MAY, 


2II 


you will find in the parcel, and, from their costly 
quality, we judged that she was the child of rich 
people. My son, having wandered from street to 
street, stumbled — for it had grown dark — over some 
obstacle in his path, and stooping down to ex- 
amine the cause, saw the lifeless body of a woman 
lying on the ground. Across it lay the form of a 
child, sobbing violently. He lifted her up, ques- 
tioning her about her name, but the child knew 
only her Christian name, which was Edith, and 
could not give any information as to her friends 
or home. Probably she was too young to remem- 
ber that. He tried to console her, by telling her 
that he would find her mamma to-morrow. Soon 
she fell asleep, and thus he brought her home to 
us. A week passed, and as yet your relations — 
for by this time you must have understood that 
that child was yourself — had not been heard of We 
were poor, and could not afford to spend much 
money, but my son went daily to L., to hear some 
news concerning your parentage, perusing such news- 
papers as he was able to get hold of, but to no avail 
Two weeks passed ; still nothing transpired that 


212 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


could throw any light upon the matte-r. In the 
meantime, my son’s only child, a little girl, about 
as old as yourself, died, and they resolved to adopt 
you as their own. 

“ Soon after that we sold the farm, and removed to 
the ‘ Large Farm.’ We had given up all hope of 
ever discovering your parents, and the people in the 
neighborhood naturally believed that you were our 
own child. After some years had passed, my son’s 
wife died, and he too, soon after her. You and I 
were left alone ; and you were all to me. When you 
grew older, I was constantly in fear that some pea- 
sant’s son might win you for his wife. I say fear, 
for I was convinced that your relations were people 
of rank ; therefore I gladly accepted Mr. Raymond’s 
offer to educate you, and welcomed his proposal 
to marry you, knowing him to be an honorable 
man. When he reads this, as I suppose he will, he 
will understand much that hitherto has been dark tc 
him. The articles which you will find in the parcel 
may, perhaps, enable you to discover what my son 
had sought in vain. The initials and crest upon the 
medallion will show you that your ancestors are 


THE SIXTH OF MAY. 


213 


noble. Let Mr. Raymond help you in the search for 
them. He will understand better than I how to 
advise you in this matter. And now, my child, fare- 
well. My blessing upon you, and my best wishes 
for your future happiness. 

Your loving grandmother, I will say, to the last. 

Ann Adlaw.” 


214 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE TABLES TURNED. 

The paper dropped from Edith’s hands. She sat 
in a stupor almost bordering on unconsciousness. 
Her brows burned, her pulses throbbed, her hands 
were cold as ice. Oh that I had the power to 
think ! ” she exclaimed, while her fingers nervously 
pressed her forehead. ‘‘ All is confusion. A chaos 
of bewildering ideas chase each other, and my brain 
seems on fire with this unlooked-for tidings. Had 
I but one week to think, to take counsel with myself, 
I might ,then unravel this complicated network of 
facts ; but what are a few hours, to see one’s way 
clearly, in a situation like mine? A walk in the 
forest, perhaps, will lift the cloud this startling intelli- 
gence has thrown over my reason. The fresh morn- 
ing air will restore my faculty to think ; I must go 
at once, for no time is to be lost. In a few hours I 
must act, and act to a purpose.” 


THE TABLES TULNED. 


215 


So saying, she hastily left her room and the house, 
choosing a secluded path in the woods. Ah, this is 
refreshing ! ” she exclaimed, inhaling the air with a 
sense of great relief. “ This clears one’s brain, and 
qualifies one to think, and to reason.” A calm 
decision settled upon her features', and her eyes grew 
thoughtful. Soon I shall be able to decide upon 
my future course, and to unravel the difficulties that 
surround my present position. I have found my 
mother ! ” And her voice trembled with tenderness 
as she pronounced that word. It is not hard to 
love her, for my affections were won by her months 
ago, and I long to bring joy and happiness to her, to 
show her a daughter’s love, and give her a child’s 
embrace. I, also, have become a Countess ! ” Her 
eyes flashed proudly and her head rose haughtily at 
this thought. “ How his relations will wonder, and 
bow, and how his son will— where am I going ?” She 
interrupted herself quickly. “ Wherefore such unbe- 
coming, bitter thoughts ?” After a long silence she 
recommenced her soliloquy. “ Yes, yes, this will be 
the best way. The Countess, my mother, must know 
nothing of it before the ceremony is performed. A'ozv 


2i6 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


she is favorably inclined toward Mr. Raymond, thinks 
him noble, generous and good, and congratulates me 
upon my choice ; but might not her opinion suffer a 
change? would she be equally rejoiced if my beloved 
wished to marry her daughter ? I fear that then she 
would remonstrate, ’and withhold her consent to our 
union ; and although, being of age, I cannot be con- 
trolled, still delay would be the probable consequence 
of her having a knowledge of the facts. And he — 
might not he, in his noble generosity, offer to 
release me, aye, even try to persuade me to follow my 
mother’s wishes, hard as it would be for him to give 
me up ? Therefore, I will tempt none, trust none, 
but act without consulting any one. Now I may 
return. I feel easier since I have determined. It 
must be time for me to prepare myself to receive 
them.” She retraced her steps to the house, and 
there encountered the Countess’ maid, who told her 
that her mistress had sent her to attend on her, 
and ask her, when her toilet was finished, to proceed 
to the Countess’ apartment, as her ladyship wished to 
put the finishing touches to her toilet. 

One o’clock. The clergyman from S., the little 


THE TABLES TURNED. 


217 


village close by, had arrived, and almost at the same 
time two carriages, containing Mr. Raymond and his 
family. 

The party was assembled, as the Countess, leaning 
on the arm of her father, entered the room with 
Edith. There was no time for Mr. Raymond to intro- 
duce Edith to his children ; he, therefore, saluted 
her with a loving smile and a tender pressure of his 
hand, leaving all else until she should be his wife. 

Edith had cast a hurried look at the party; had 
noticed the smiles and profound bows bestowed upon 
the Baron and his daughter, and also seen how the 
expression of their features changed into measured 
coldness when greeting herself This brought the 
color to her countenance, for well did she understand 
this change. Smiles and deference to the Countess ; 
formal bows to her companion. Yet she smiled to 
herself, knowing that soon the same homage would 
be her own. 

The ceremony was soon over. Mr. Raymond 
signed the contract, handing the pen to Edith to do 
the same. Her hand trembled, and it grew dark be- 
fore her eyes, as she bent over the paper, but only 


19 


2I8 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


for a moment ; then, with quick decision, she signed, 

Edith, Countess von Metland.” 

'' My darling ! ’’ exclaimed Mr. Raymond, look- 
ing, astonished, into the pale face of his young wife, 
“ You have made a mistake.” But she only smiled, 
and, turning to the Countess, said, with clear, ringing 
voice, Mother, dear, will j/ou^ also, sign your name?” 

General consternation was visible in every counte- 
nance, but Edith, with a Pardon me one moment,” 
left the room. In a few minutes she returned, bring- 
ing a parcel, which she handed to the Countess, 
saying, Will you please examine its contents and 
read this letter ?” 

All had come near, now, curious to know what this 
interruption meant. The Countess opened the parcel. 
Piece after piece she drew forth, growing paler every 
moment, until she held up the medallion, then, with a 
faint cry, and the exclamation of My husband ! ” 
sank into the arms of her father. 

My son-in-law ! ” cried the Baron, looking upon 
the portrait. 

The Count von Metland ! ” muttered old Freid- 
erich, who was standing behind his master. 


THE TABLES TURNED. 


219 


All was confusion now ; Edith alone remained com- 
posed, and, ordering a servant to bring water for his 
mistress, bathed her face and hands until life came 
back and her eyes opened again. 

Do you feel better. Mother ?” she asked, caress- 
ing the cold and slender hand she held in her’s. 

“ Where did you get those articles ?’' 

From my grandmother — for so I shall always call 
her — on her death-bed. She then told me to open the 
parcel on the day when I should come of age. You 
may imagine how I felt when I read the letter this 
morning, and ^remembered what you had told me 
about the loss of your child. Shall I give the letter 
to my grandfather to read ?” 

“ Let the clergyman read it aloud.” 

Breathless silence reigned while, with a distinct and 
clear voice, the clergyman read the short statement 
of Mrs. Adlaw. When he had finished, Edith put her 
arms tenderly around the neck of the Countess, 
whispering softly, ‘‘ Am I not your daughter ?” 

My Edith, my long lost child ! ” was all the 
answer, for tears of joy almost prevented all other 
expression of her feelings — Why, then, was I told 


220 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


that my child was dead ? Why allowed to mourn for 
years over her loss ?” And her eyes turned reproach- 
fully toward her father. 

“ Hear me, my daughter, and condemn me not 
unheard. Old Freiderich came back, telling me that 
the body of the nurse was found, but that there was 
no trace of the young Countess. We went to inform 
you of this, but at the sight of our mournful counte- 
nances you fainted away, which ended in a long sick- 
ness. While you were lying ill I left no means 
untried to recover the child, but all in vain. When 
you had nearly recovered, we thought we had found 
a clue to her whereabouts, at last. The child was 
traced to a farm-house some miles distant from L. 
On arriving there, however, we were told that the 
former possessor of the property had left, and that the 
family then living there were entire strangers in the 
neighborhood. With this news my last hope fled, 
r.nd I resolved to let you still believe that our dear 
Edith was dead, fearing that the uncertainty of her 
fate might be more dangerous to your peace of mind 
than the belief that she was dead. Forgive me, that 
I have acted thus. I did it for the best. Ever since 


THE TABLES TURNED. 


221 


the coming of Miss Adlaw— Edith, I mean— I felt 
uncomfortable. The extraordinary likeness she bears 
to her father, especially the particularly haughty 
motion of her head and expression around the mouth, 
when disturbed, sometimes filled me with vague 
fears and hopes. Still, what could I do ? I had no 
proofs, and it would have been cruel to raise hopes in 
your breast which might never have been realized. 
But now I shall gladly call her my grandchild, my 
own dear Edith.” 

“ There is one thing more, my daughter,” said the 
Countess, “ which will prove, beyond a doubt, that 
you are my child. On the back of my Edith’s head, 
cunningly hid under her curls, there was one 
tress of silver, which always gave the nurse a great 
deal of annoyance. Will you let me search for it ?” 

I have, indeed, this curious tress, and my grand- 
mother often laughingly told me that it might 
be of use to me.” So saying, Edith let down her 
magnificent hair, and exposed the shining proof of 
her identity. 

Mr. Raymond, in the meantime, had listened to all 
in speechless amazement, and when, at last, no doubt 
19* 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


o o 

was left that Edith, his ‘ little one,’ was, indeed, of 
noble parentage, his heart sank within him, and fear 
that her relations might try to part them forever rose 
m his breast. It was, therefore, with a sad smile that 
he took her hand, as she turned to him a face radiant 
with love and happiness. 

“ How well every thing has turned out. Sir,” she 
said, linking, fondly, her arm in his. “ Is it not a 
happy day, indeed, rhy husband,” she added, blush- 
ingly. 

“ My dearest Edith ! ” exclaimed the Baron — while 
her mother, with an uneasy look, regarded her child 
and Mr. Raymond—” this marriage is void now. 
Certainly my grandchild could never mate with a 
merchant, no matter how good and wealthy he might 
be.” 

"Your Lordship forgets,” answered Edith, hardly 
able to suppress her indignation, “ that Mr. Raymond 
has claims upon m)' affection prior to those of my 
grandfather. Your Lordship must also be pleased,” 
she added, with dignity, “ to speak of my husband 
with becoming respect. Whoever insults him insults 


me. 


The tables turned. 


223 


I highly esteem and respect Mr. Raymond, yet” — 

Enough, my Lord ; I accept your apology.” 
And the lines around her mouth grew firm and hard. 

Mowher, she said, softly, “ will yozi welcome your 
son ?” 

“ Edith, my daughter, must I pain you in the first 
hour of our reunion ? Mr. Raymond will always be 
a most welcome guest and a highly honored friend at 
our house, but — ” 

Edith, I — I release you ! ” exclaimed Mr. Ray- 
mond, with a face deadly pale, yet with his head 
erect and his eyes flashing with wounded pride. 

Thank you. Sir, for helping my daughter to her 
proper course of action.” ^ 

A cold bow was the only answer. 

‘‘Sir! Sir!” Edith cried, with a voice full of 
anguish — '' Will you, indeed, turn your ' Sweetheart ' 
out into the cold, cruel world again; or do you believe 
that I should stay here — here, with people so heart- 
less as these? You cannot, will not, must not, leave 
me. Sir — me, who loves you so well.” 

“My darling, my Mittle one,’ I mucl not listen to 
you. I must give you up,” he answered. For 


224 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


your own sake, dearest, I must sacrifice my love.” 
Then, in deep despair, he turned from her, moving 
toward the door. 

With one spring she was again by his side. “ I 
shall not give you up, however. I am your wife. 
You are my husband. There stands the man who 
united us, and there are our signatures. Do you 
think that I have not thought well about the 
matter? Do you believe that I have been unpre- 
pared for such a scene ? No, I know the world 
and its miserable prejudices, and I purposely kept all 
these facts to myself until we should be husband and 
wife, doubting not that my noble i^elations ” — and she 
emphasized the words, while throwing a sweeping 
glance of contempt upon her grandfather and mother — 
” would try to separate us, should they know them 
beforehand; but now I am of age, and my own mis- 
tress.” 

Reflect, Edith,” said the Baron, in an angry voice, 
‘'before it is too late. You are not of age, as you 
think, for your birthday is in July. To-day is only 
the anniversary of the great fire ; the sixth of May is 


THE TABLES TURNED. 


225 


the day on which you were found. I can get a di- 
vorce, easily, for I have powerful friends at Court.” 

Reflect !” replied Edith, calmly, nothing but her 
heightened color, and the trembling of her dilated 
nostrils showing the indignation that swelled her 
breast. Did he, my husband, reflect, when he found 
me in my lowly hut, ignorant and without manners ?” 
She cared not now that his relations should know 
from how low a place he had raised her. “ Did he 
consider when he gave me the great treasure of his 
love ? Did he draw back and think of his high posi- 
tion, when his heart prompted him to ask me to be 
his wife?” And Maurice Raymond’s face flushed 
guiltily, as he encountered the fire of her passing 
glance, and his heart beat uneasily, as he remem- 
bered the role he had played at Freiburg. “ Who is 
noble? He who acts as his conscience tells him is 
right, without listening to what the world may say, 
but, high above their prejudices, calmly pursues the 
road of goodness, honor and virtue ? Or the one 
who, raised by the accident of birth only, looks down 
in idiotic superiority upon those born under less 
auspicious circumstances, backed by nothing that 


226 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


makes mankind great and glorious? You say, also, 
that I am not of age, and that, therefore, my signa- 
ture is null and void — be it so ; get your divorce ; 
use the great power you have at Court; give the 
world — your noble world, a rare tit-bit of scandal to 
talk about. What does this matter to me? My 
mother will lose a daughter, whom she might chain, 
now, by love, to her for ever, while I shall lose noth- 
ing, for in July the marriage ceremony shall be re- 
peated again. Choose now, before it is too late. I 
shall cling to him — to my husband — for my heart, 
my most ardent love, has been his for years, and 
nothing can lessen it. He, alone, shall possess it as 
long as I live. Sir !’' and her voice grew low and 
soft as she turned to Mr. Raymond, and the expres- 
sion of her features became sweet and childlike, “will 
you leave me now ? Am I not your ' Sweetheart ?’ ” 

“ Never, ‘ little one,’ never; we will part no more !” 
he cried, clasping her, with fervent love, into his 
arms. 

“ Edith, my daughter, come, let me embrace you 
and your husband.” 

“ And you, Grandfather ?” 


THE TABLES TURNED. 


227 


“ If your mother consents, my refusal would be 
useless. Yet, one request I should like to make.” 

And that is? asked Edith, smilingly. 

“ That your husband gives his consent to become 
ennobled. The estate of Einsiedel, after my death, 
shall go to him, and he will be Baron von Einsiedel.” 

As my husband pleases. His name will always 
be the dearest to me. What do you say, Sir ?” 

“For your mother’s sake, I consent. And now let 
me introduce my children to my wife.” 

How different her reception now. Smiles of grati- 
fication upon every lip, and words of endearment 
from every tongue. 

“ Edith, this is my son,- Maurice.” 

How should she receive him? Yet, only for an 
instant was she undecided; then, reflecting that 
she could afford to be magnanimous, she gave him 
one long, searching look, and frankly holding out 
her hand, said, “ I think we have met before. Is it 
not so 

“ If your ladyship deigns to acknowledge it, I shall 
feel myself highly honored.” 


228 


HIS SWEETHEART. 


“ Nay, not so modest, my son — I am your mother 
now.” 

“ This gentleman. Sir ” — turning to her husband— 
“ is the one who rescued me from danger at the Titi- 
Sea.” 

“Indeed!” was the astonished reply, while at the 
same time, the recollection of all that Kdith had told 
him about that gentleman flashed vividly before his 
mind. 

“ And we shall be friends, in future.” 

“ Thank you ” — 

“ Mother,” said Edith, completing his sentence, 
with a bright smile. 

That evening, after Mr. Raymond’s family had re- 
turned to their quarters at C., leaving their father, 
with his young wife, preparing for their wedding tour, 
William, who had particularly enjoyed the introduc- 
tion scene between the ladies of his family and his 
new mother, whose great beauty and high-bred man- 
ners had completely won him over, said, “Well, 
Maud, what about overlooking our father’s wife? Do 
you still mean to ignore her? And you, Ida, will 
you keep to your Intention — treat the intruder with 


THE TABLES TURNED. 


229 


cool indifference? This was quite a come down; was 
it not? A complete ‘turning the tables.’ I hope 
this will be a lesson to you, not to be so hasty and 
ready to condemn unheard.’’ 

To which well-deserved rebuke none replied, each 
feeling and confessing in her heart, that this time she 
had made a faux pas,” indeed. 


THE END. 


20 


JUST T’UBIjZSHIEID 


JAMES A. MOORE. 

I 

GOLD AND GUILT: 

BV THE AUTHOR OF 

‘‘Judge Not,’^ “Stale Bread,” “Deserted Mill,” 
* “Agnes Byle,” etc. 

12mo, cloth, $1.25. Paper cover, 50 cents. 


Read the Notices of the Press. 

“ Gold and Guilt ” is unusually interesting and meritorious, presented in an 
attractive form, being well printed on excellent paper and beautifully bound. Mr. 
Moore has published a number of excellent works by Harriet B. McKeever and 
other popular authors. — From the Day, Philada., Nov. 2d, 1877. 

"Gold and Guilt" is almost a novel, although it is a book that can be placed 
in a young girl’s hands with a certainty that both profit and entertainment may be 
derived from it. It possesses some rather sensational elements, but it is very well 
written, and has a strong interest. lamo, cloth, ^1.25. — From the Pub. Weekly, 
November loth, 1877. 

Gold and Guilt” is a thoroughly American story, opening near the base 
of the Blue Ridge Mountains. As the title implies, the extreme of wrongdoing is 
represented here, not to be lightly regarded, as the world regards guilt when it brings 
in gold, but to have punishment meted out to it, even upon earth, before the passing 
away of the offenders into the hereafter. The aim of this 'torv is excellent, and its 
execution shows considerable skill, not merely in the construction of the plot, but in 
character-sketching. The moral of the tale may be said to point itself. — From the 
Press, Philadelphia, Nov. 3d, 1877. 

** Gold and Guilt" is one of the best of the semi-religious novels which are at 
prasent so popular, designed to convey a good moral under the guise of an attractive 
and pleasing narrative. The story is very cleverly told, the characters natural and 
admirably defined, and the reader’s interest is well sustained to the last page. 
“Gold and Guilt" is, no doubt, destined to achieve a wide popularity and as it is 
handsomely gotten up, no better or more instructive holiday present could be lound. 
From the Graphic, New York, Nov. 14th, i 877 ' 



s 


.TXJST i=>xjblish:ezd 

BY 

ItlggOOT^lig 

TENDER AND TRUE: 

By HARRIET B. McKEEVER. 

16mo, cloth, $1.25. Paper cover, 50 cents. 


Bead the criticisms on the last work of Miss McKeever, 

This is another of those valuable books for the A-^oung for which Miss McKp^vpi- 

Lhiol b'.t a lying tongue is buffer a moment.- Sunday 

AwfLiyf JJf “577 “ the Record, rkiladelMia, 

contrast the life of a young girl brought 
■*'' P “"dthat of another who had only the evii tfalhingrofa 

ashionable, unprincipled mother. T. he^storv is verv urettilv tnlrl anri A ^ 
become a favorite. Illustrated, r6mo, cloth, foM,™ 

R P“^^'shed by Mr. Moore, is from the pen of Miss Harriet 

incident.-fr..,„ the Rres^.^Rhi^et^: 

certJi'lVvw TOmnlem Inif'r'll® P°«rayfd ■" this juvenile volume is 

JMartTretwaTa s^fio Vm ^ 'I'P a° ®‘™''»'-d of true Gospel discipleship. 

cessMcharaft^s arLfr,'’ J“dioious, wise, devoted, skillful, and sue-- 

ttndemtand thf amhnr K ""J occiirrence m this fallen world. But we readily 

show^g what mtfhf h P standard of Scripture excellence, and 

vonthfif exhibited, if there were no sin in this time state. We hone 

Ld ^hink discouraged by the high degree of excellence maintained 

nd think, because they cannot hope to be like Margaret Russell therefore thev 

G "t asTe w^s*c 1 | 1 ?h‘t"“'“‘‘"“*^ Agatha. After all, Gertmde^o^ 

^77'“’^ ccsembled:-A'..r« the 





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